Intrepid
by elizabethroz
Summary: Regulus is being stalked. Narcissa's being blackmailed. Through a chain of anonymous letters, there comes a choice with consequences more severe than anyone could anticipate.
1. Of Potions and Premonitions

**Chapter One -- Of Potions and Premonitions**   
_Tuesday, October 18, 1977_

There was something distinctly ironic, Regulus decided, about one's Arithmancy professor arbitrarily calling a club meeting during one's free period.

As this was the case, he found himself standing with considerable annoyance in front of the door to Professor Amburn's office, vaguely weighing the pros and cons of ditching the meeting for a game of Exploding Snap with Colleen Fletcher -- not that Exploding Snap itself had all that much appeal, but more for the fact that anything was looking better than an Arithmancy Club meeting at two o'clock, on an otherwise perfect Tuesday afternoon.

Before he could get very far with such considerations, though, the door swung swiftly open, framing the small form and tense face of Madeleine Bourdelet.

Bourdelet was a seventh year, two years ahead of Regulus, and a deeply disconcerting human being.

"You coming in?" she asked briskly.

"Maybe, if you'll move out of the doorway."

Without the merest change of expression, she side-stepped him and pushed past into the hall.

Which left him with only one option, which was to stop staring at the door and resign himself to the dull misery of a wasted afternoon.

Professor Amburn's office was a cramped chamber, even more so with half of the Arithmancy Club packed inside. There were only two officers for each year, but most of Amburn's seventh-year class had abandoned their Trigomancy charts and were chattering loudly around Amburn's desk.

Among them was Bellatrix Black, who was seated at the desk, twirling long strands of her hair with a finger and smiling boredly at Christie Thompson's over-exuberant attempts at engaging her in conversation. Regulus caught her eye; her mouth widened in a grin and she motioned him over hastily.

"Where've you been?" she asked while he leaned against the edge of the desk, trying not to disturb the massive piles of ungraded assignments and open ink bottles left on Amburn's cluttered desk.

"Owlery," he said, shifting a stack of textbooks and dropping them down to the floor, one by one. They landed with a series of soft thumps, a pile of twisted binding and paper. "Narcissa sent a letter home."

"Ah," said Bellatrix, examining her split ends. "I'm sure it beat Arithmancy class, by far. We're working on Trigomancy; it's sheer torture."

"What's this meeting about, anyway?"

"Something Dumbledore has to say to us," said Bellatrix flatly, "But Amburn's been in her classroom for the past fifteen minutes, debating advanced forms of the Calculatus spell with Ilian Neven. I'm sure his capacity for logical thought is much higher than hers, so none of us are worried."

"Neven -- not that bloke we met in Diagon Alley this summer?"

"Loud, obnoxious, and with a ridiculously low tolerance for alcohol? The very same," said Bellatrix with a smirk. "He's been reading the textbook again, Merlin knows why."

"That's dangerous," remarked Regulus, "Educating the ignorant. They might start to get ideas."

Bellatrix smiled at this, pulling the top drawer of Amburn's desk open and running her fingers lightly over the contents, which were no more orderly than the items on the desktop. "I'm not so sure about that," she said, fingering the sweep of a large and gaudy quill, "A little re-education doesn't always hurt."

The door shut with a soft thud. Regulus tried not to grin too broadly when Amburn herself tottered into the room, followed by a very smug-looking seventh year with floppy a fringe, recognisable as Ilian Neven. Neven threw himself down next to a Gryffindor sixth year that eyed him warily from the corner of her eye; he ignored her completely and sent an enthusiastic series of hand gestures and a mouthed explanation across the room to Rodolphus Lestrange, who evidently understood none of it.

Amburn was a squat woman, built with a certain roundness and excess of skin. A towering pile of frizzy, greying red hair perched on the top of her head; she had a habit of patting the mass thoughtfully, as though she were afraid it would scuttle away if she didn't keep a good eye on it. Her tiny, gold-rimmed glasses kept slipping down her slight nose and her hand constantly pushed them back up to peer at whatever she was reading.

She looked slightly lost, standing in a crowd of her students, but cleared her throat importantly to call order to the room.

"May I have your attention, please?" she called in her thin, reedy voice.

A reluctant silence fell, punctured by some unidentified sniggering and scattered whispering. Amburn looked down at the papers in her hand before abandoning them at the top of a pile of diagrams on her desk.

"I know there wasn't a good deal of prior notice," she began, turning back to face her students, "but I've called this meeting to give you all an important announcement from Professor Dumbledore."

Bellatrix gave a clearly audible sigh and sank lower over Amburn's mess. Typical. Dumbledore, patron saint of Gryffindors, was highly overrated by most of Regulus' housemates. Bellatrix was one of the few who had both her own ideas and absolutely no qualms about sharing them.

"Now," Amburn was saying matter-of-factly, "Hogwarts' exact age has never been recorded in reliable sources, as I'm sure you know -- there've been plenty of approximations as to how long it has stood. In honour of our new Minister of Magic, Octavian Earnshaw, the school governors have agreed to celebrate this year as Hogwarts' twelve-hundredth year in existence."

Bellatrix made a derisive sound in her throat, evidently in severe doubt. Diana McKinnon, a seventh year Ravenclaw, was distracting Amburn with a wave of questions; Bella took the opportunity to lean towards Regulus with her own commentary.

"Everyone knows that's not true," she said quietly. "The governors are obsessed with pleasing the new Minister, that's all -- and anything traditional will look wonderful to the Ministry."

"And terrible to most everyone else," said Regulus dutifully. "The governors..."

"Need to be replaced," Bella finished, with relish.

"No, Miss McKinnon," Amburn was saying, "We can't verify these facts..."

"But, Professor--!" protested McKinnon loudly.

Ilian Neven reached around two people to thwap her on the head with his palm.

"Now," Amburn continued, as though she had seen nothing, "Hallowe'en falls on a Monday this year, and as a special treat, Professor Dumbledore has decided to cut it down to a half-day for classes."

This announcement in particular was met with scattered cheering.

"You aren't getting off that easily!" said Amburn with an obnoxious little laugh, "The rest of the day will be used for the 'Founder's Day Festival', an exhibition, if you like, of the curriculum and activities found at the school. It'll be held in the Great Hall for Hogwarts students and special representatives from the Ministry of Magic."

Regulus groaned. "So we're spending Hallowe'en entertaining a bunch of adults with nothing better to do?"

"_Right_," said Bellatrix sardonically. "If Rodolphus and I find a way out of it, you'll skive off with us?"

"In a heartbeat."

Diana McKinnon's hand was up again. "The Arithmancy Club is going to have our own demonstration table, aren't we?"

Honestly, some of these Ravenclaws were entirely over-excitable.

Professor Amburn, however, beamed. "Yes. Our seventh year representatives are organising it all."

Regulus swivelled around to look at Bellatrix, whose smile had suddenly gone sickly. Her poise held, though; with just the slightest bit more force than necessary, she said, "Oh, are we?"

"Of course!" said Amburn happily, "You and Madeleine will be in charge of all of the preparations."

Madeleine Bourdelet snapped upright as quickly as though the filing cabinet she was sitting on had been struck by lightning. She must've returned to the room sometime before Amburn did, Regulus noted. Her eyes darted from Bellatrix's smile, which was quickly turning into a sneer, and Amburn, who was still smiling benevolently without a clue of what was going on.

Bourdelet was the outcast of the seventh year students, and with good reason; as far as Regulus had experienced, she had a personality like acid. Presently, she was sitting bolt upright with a facial expression faintly akin to that of a cornered rabbit, something that Regulus found distinctly amusing.

"It's really okay, Professor -- I mean, she can do it herself if she wants to--" said Bourdelet very quickly.

"Nonsense, Madeleine! I chose two seventh-year officers for a reason. You two will make an excellent team, I can tell. I'm sure things will just turn out beautifully!"

Regulus was sure that he heard Rodolphus Lestrange mutter, very clearly, "There's optimism in its purest form: ignorance."

Bellatrix shot Rodolphus a frantic look. "What if Rodolphus and I worked together? He's a seventh-year, too--"

"But I'm not an officer," said Rodolphus innocently. Bellatrix narrowed her eyes, which Rodolphus seemed to completely miss, as busy as he was trying to keep that wide-eyed look in place.

"We'll go ahead and leave things the way they are," said Amburn, turning back to her paperwork, completely oblivious to Bella's protesting sputters. "As for the rest of you, we'll need volunteers to man the booth..."

Most of the other students were beginning to shift around restlessly, whispering as it became obvious that the meeting was almost over. Bellatrix sank lower behind Amburn's desk, looking mutinous.

"Erm," said Regulus, hoping to come up with something reassuring to say, "What's so wrong with Bourdelet? She'd probably do whatever you tell her to--"

"No, she won't," said Bellatrix suddenly, pulling out her bag from beneath the desk. "She's impossible. I might as well be working with a talking parrot, for all the good it will do me."

"What do you mean by that?" Regulus asked, watching Bella walk around the desk and following her to the door, "It can't be _that_ bad--"

Bellatrix looked sceptical, but said nothing as Bourdelet slid off of the filing cabinet and looked their way, suddenly seeming very small and nervous.

"Well?" said Bourdelet.

"The library, after class tomorrow," said Bellatrix snidely. "Don't be late."

-----

Bellatrix wasn't the only one who seemed tetchy today. Regulus knew there was something wrong without a word when Narcissa arrived precisely ten minutes late to dinner and flopped into her seat with an uncharacteristic slouch.

"Great Aunt Elladora's dying," she said dramatically, dropping a folded letter onto her plate.

"Great Aunt Elladora's been dying for years," said Regulus. "Why should we start worrying about it now?"

Narcissa snorted and filled her goblet with movements somewhat more forceful than one usually required when pouring pumpkin juice. "Evidently it's for real this time."

"According to whom?" asked Regulus indifferently.

Narcissa's eyes flashed back to her plate. "My mother. She owled to say that she and Father have a marvellous holiday planned in Vienna, for two. It seems we'll be left at your house again for Christmas."

"Well, I'd be lonely by myself," said Regulus.

He immediately wished he hadn't.

As it was, there were certain realities attached to such a statement that remained strictly undiscussed. Mentioning anything like loneliness was bound to lead to the question of _why_ he would be lonely--and actually, it was much easier to avoid that conversation altogether.

Narcissa had apparently picked up on this. Her cheeks the slightest pink, she cleared her throat lightly.

"Maybe by that time, Aunt Elladora will be dead and Bellatrix will finally get that ruby carcanet she's been eyeing since the day she turned eight," she said, trying to busy her hands with the task of pushing chicken Kiev onto her plate.

"You seem happy enough that she's leaving," said Regulus, abandoning all tact.

"The woman is _evil_," said Narcissa darkly, leaning towards him across the table. "I'm tired of waiting for it. Remember how she used to 'inspect' us? How many times did she check for dirt beneath Andromeda's fingernails?"

"Indeterminate," said Regulus, "But I don't see where _you_ have the right to be tired of waiting for it. She's living in my house, you know. I've been traumatised by all of the times I've woken up in the middle of the night to the sound of her coughing up decayed bits of her lungs. She's decomposing in that upstairs bedroom."

Narcissa cocked a sceptical eyebrow. "I'm sorry, then. There are worse things in life than decaying Great Aunts."

As if to punctuate this statement, a diversion came in the form of a Hufflepuff who had been previously sitting directly behind Regulus. In an effort to lean his chair backward he had somehow managed to push it over entirely, slamming into the Slytherin table with a loud _crack!_ and several obscenities.

"Finkley," said Regulus mildly amid the onslaught of jeers and laughter from down the table, "What are you doing, exactly?"

Eugene Finkley was a woefully underappreciated fifth-year, currently sitting beneath the Slytherin table with a pained expression on his face. Shaking his head ruefully, he struggled upright and looked around the Hall with a sheepish grin.

"Phoebus Ahlman was looking for both of you," said Finkley distractedly, and began brushing off his robes. "I think, anyway. He told me, to tell you, to tell Narcissa, that he'll wait for you in Classroom Eleven. Or something like that."

Narcissa rolled her eyes doubtfully and reached for her goblet. Regulus smirked and said, "Can Ahlman not come find us himself?"

Finkley's face screwed up in frustration. "Nah," he said finally, "He saw me copying Jennifer Click's Charms homework the other day and now I've got to be his personal servant through the end of the week."

"That's steep," said Regulus. To his credit, he refrained from mentioning that Phoebus Ahlman usually reserved his harsher punishments for those too stupid to argue, and focused on looking generically sympathetic.

"He's blackmailing you _again_?" asked Narcissa, looking much more amused than she should have.

"Yeah," said Finkley balefully. "I'm not sure this Prefect thing is good for him. Phoebus has a lot of rage."

Regulus ignored Narcissa's delighted smile. "Did he say what he wanted to talk to us about?" he asked. Hopefully not blackmail. There was already too much blackmail in the Slytherin Prefecture.

"Nah," said Finkley, "You'll have to ask him yourself. But I'd definitely go, if I were you. He looked dangerous," he added ominously.

"Phoebus always looks dangerous," said Narcissa dismissively, after Finkley had righted his chair and was sitting safely at the Hufflepuff table again. "He's a perpetually frustrated human being."

Regulus shrugged. "That's his excuse for walking over anyone who gets in his way, and stepping on people who don't, just for fun."

"Well, let's go _find_ him," said Narcissa, throwing her napkin down. "I don't feel like eating anything else."

"Finkley spoiled your appetite?" laughed Regulus. "You've hardly touched your plate."

"I'm not hungry," she said shortly, standing up and folding her arms like a cross child.

Regulus stared at her for a moment, sighed, and stood up reluctantly. "_Fine_," he said, "we'll go find Phoebus."

Phoebus Ahlman was the nightmare of the fifth-year Slytherins and the only one of them to have successfully eliminated the chain of authority above him. Becoming a Prefect should have done something to put a damper on his rampant blackmailing, but it only seemed to perpetuate it. For people like Regulus, it was a favour -- why go to detention if Ahlman's punishments were more lenient? -- but for people like Finkley, a horror.

Phoebus got away with most things because no one important could be bothered with paying attention to him. The Head of House had seen too many terms and could hardly keep track of any of the Prefects, the Gryffindor Head Boy and Girl would have avoided him even if they knew what was going on, and Bellatrix -- who _ruled_ the seventh years -- had never had any provocation from him.

The only real problem with Phoebus was that he had always been deeply unconcerned with the wellbeing of other people, in general.

Frankly, he didn't have the concentration span for all of the politicking he did. In fact, only one thing had ever held his interest for long, and she was sitting at the desk next to him when Regulus and Narcissa walked into the otherwise empty Classroom Eleven.

Grace Cohen was a thin black girl with narrow brown eyes and an jaunty posture. At the moment, she was explaining the utterly dull details of her Transfiguration essay as Phoebus watched her mouth moving with disturbingly rapt attention.

Popular opinion of Grace credited her with the typical pristine mindset of Ravenclaw Prefects and a personality about as interesting as that Transfiguration essay.

Before Regulus could get the chance to make any snide remark about the situation, Narcissa stepped forward with her arms folded over her chest and a facial expression that looked far from amused.

"Well?" she asked, "Finkley said--"

"Oh, Merlin," said Phoebus, cutting her off impatiently. "That sodding _idiot_ managed to get you here, at least, but I didn't ask for Regulus. I might have to release him from my service out of sheer frustration."

At this, Grace's small smile flattened. "Phoebus," she said in a patronising manner, "I'm not sure it's within your rights as a Prefect to blackmail Eugene Finkley into acting like your house-elf."

Phoebus made noncommittal sounds of acknowledgement and turned to rifle through his bag, sitting open on the next desk. "Mmm. You're right, Grace. It isn't fair. Equality, and such. I'll have to treat everyone that way now, won't I?"

"You already do," said Regulus.

"Oh, that's right," said Phoebus vaguely, pulling a thick brown tome out of his bag and turning back to them.

Narcissa pursed her lips and watched his fingers skitter nimbly through the pages of the book. "If you've got something to say, Ahlman, I suggest you say it. We haven't got all day."

"All right," said Phoebus, drawing himself up, which was now quite a way -- Phoebus had spent his summer vacation getting even taller, even lankier, and much smarmier. "I've gathered you here -- well, not you, Regulus, but we're improvising -- to share with you one of my more brilliant plans, which is really quite saying something, and invite you to participate in it. Well, not invite, exactly. You really are going to have to."

"Get to the point, Ahlman," said Narcissa through her teeth.

"Upon becoming a Prefect," said Phoebus in a long-suffering voice, "it has occurred to me that this justice system is in shambles."

"Since when is that bad for you?" cut in Regulus, who was thinking of nothing but the long list of Phoebus' excursions from last year -- it was a wonder that he had managed to become a Prefect at all.

"Shut up," said Phoebus, "I didn't invite you."

"What does this have to do with us?" said Narcissa impatiently.

"You get to help me with some renovations. Sound nice?"

"Not really," said Regulus.

"Oh, be quiet," snapped Grace, surprising everyone. She didn't seem distracted by this in the least. "Go on, Phoebus, tell them."

"I'm making a potion," he said, handing the old book to Grace and regaining his composure somewhat. "Rather, you're making it for me."

"No we're not," said Regulus immediately.

Narcissa, on the other hand, quirked her eyebrows and surveyed them with a mildly interested expression. "What kind of potion?"

"Read it, Grace."

She did, peering carefully over the words with the old tome propped up on her knees.

_"The Televoyance Draught,"_ she read, her voice quavering slightly, _"is a rarely employed potion that derives its power from the venom..."_ She skipped a bit, frowning, "Erm -- _When properly administered, the Draught allows the maker of the potion full access to the mental and physical status of the drinker_..."

Everyone stared at her expectantly.

"It pretty much lets you completely monitor the actions of whoever you can get that's dumb enough to drink it," she said finally, closing the book with a satisfied _snap_.

"How?" said Narcissa, her eyes narrowing.

"Blood," said Grace, running her finger along the outside cover of the book. "Phoebus', not yours. We put it in, and sit back and watch when we manage to get anyone to drink it. From there it's like watching visions, in a Pensieve."

"Well," said Narcissa blandly, "that's illegal."

"And you have a problem with that?" asked Regulus, smiling faintly.

"I'm not going to break the law so that Phoebus Ahlman can blackmail people!" she protested, looking appalled.

Grace sighed, her hand at her forehead. "We aren't going to blackmail anyone, are we, Phoebus!?"

"Probably not," said Phoebus promptly.

Regulus shook his head. "You're really not all that convincing."

"If it isn't blackmail," said Narcissa steadily, "what _are_ you doing?"

"We're stopping crime!" said Phoebus with a surprising conviction. "How else are we going to know who's breaking the rules, if we can't get our eyes and ears among the miscreants?"

"Well, they're the ones making the illegal potions," said Narcissa sweetly.

Grace adjusted her posture, looking disgruntled. "Except that we're doing our jobs. We're Prefects, Narcissa. It's our duty to catch those who are misbehaving."

"So that Phoebus can blackmail them?" said Regulus.

Grace pointedly ignored him. Crossing her legs daintily at the ankles, she turned to Narcissa in utter composure. "Don't you have anything to say about this?"

Narcissa's eyes gleamed. "Yes, actually. What do we get out of it? Say that Regulus and I _do_ make your potion--"

"_You_ make my potion," corrected Phoebus hastily, "Don't let Regulus near it, I've seen his Potions marks--"

"Are you blackmailing the teachers?"

"--then what do I get out of it?" continued Narcissa, completely unfazed.

Phoebus smirked. "You'll be properly compensated."

"With what?"

"You want money?"

"I don't really need it."

Phoebus hardly looked discouraged. "Mmm," he said, "But there are other things you need. For instance, your reputation."

"That's the best you could come up with?" drawled Narcissa, without a trace of intimidation. "No sinister, evil Prefect speech this time?"

Phoebus frowned slightly. "Yeah. But hang on with the speech, it'll come to me."

Regulus had never held anything in particular against Phoebus Ahlman; that had quite a bit to do with the entertainment Ahlman had never ceased to provide his classmates in the past. At the moment, however, the look of unadulterated triumph on Ahlman's face was discouraging enough to make him scoot a bit farther away.

"There are a lot of bad things that could happen to you, Narcissa," Phoebus was saying. "I'm just thoughtful enough to make sure that none of them do happen, but for some reason you go about with the idea that I'm blackmailing you. Do you have any idea how much that hurts?

"Not at all?" she guessed, shifting slightly on her feet.

"Be quiet," said Phoebus sourly, "That was part of my speech."

"Get on with it, Ahlman," sighed Regulus, who had come to the conclusion that they would be around for a while and had therefore taken a seat on one of the desks along the wall, resigned to stay as far out of the proceedings as possible.

Phoebus was apparently too deep in thought to object. "Bad things that could happen to you..." he mused. "I could arrange to have you bound and delivered to Malcolm Hodges--you know, that slobbery seventh year that's always staring at you? I could get someone who's not as good to make the potion, and then use it against you... I could tell your sister Bellatrix what really happened to that pair of sapphire earrings she lent you -- she could find out that you dropped one down the sink by accident and Judith Whitley threw the other one down so it wouldn't get lonely--"

"And then she flushed them down, when I went for my wand to _accio_ them back," said Narcissa, looking, for the first time that evening, somewhat abashed. "You know about that?"

"Elizabeth Blakeney is spying for you, isn't she?" said Regulus, who had taken to resting his head against the wall behind him and looked very much like he would rather have been asleep.

"Eh," said Phoebus, "You're not allowed to guess."

Grace sighed dramatically. "Will you make the potion, or won't you?"

Narcissa spent a moment in silence and obvious consideration. "Fine," she conceded, at length, "But if I get caught with the potion..."

"What do you want?" said Phoebus, with the kind of boredom that made it quite apparent he had expected this.

"If I get caught making it, I want everything _you_ know about Judith Whitley."

Phoebus gave her an appraising look, and nodded with approval. "Indulging in a little blackmail yourself?"

"That's none of your business," said Narcissa, smiling.

His wicked grin broadened. "Agreed."

"Agreed!"

"Agreed," echoed Grace.

Regulus opened his eyes slightly, squinting at them. "Why are you looking at me?"

"He agrees," said Narcissa.

And without further ado, she gently but firmly latched herself onto Regulus' arm and steered him out of the classroom.

The abruptness of it was confusing, to say the least, but Narcissa's face was drawn as she led a bemused Regulus down the corridor toward the stairs. 

"What made you change your mind at the last?" he asked once they were a good distance from the doorway.

They stopped in the middle of the dim hallway, Narcissa's eyes studying some indeterminate point down further off. It was funny, Regulus thought, that her silhouette looked so much like Bella's, when their usual appearances were so different.

She smiled faintly. 

"Judith Whitley," she said delicately, "owes me a pair of sapphire earrings."

-----

A good deal of the night was wasted in the Slytherin common room. Regulus reflected later, as he was sitting on his bed in the fifth-year dormitories, that blackened fingertips and a lost deck of Exploding Snap cards into Colleen Fletcher's triumphant hands was not the most productive way to spend the evening.

As it was, it had at least served as a diversion. With that gone, he remained seated upright on his bed for the better part of an hour, trying to remember the homework assignments that would have to be left unfinished and trying to ignore everything that was bothering him.

Now there was Phoebus Ahlman to contend with, and how could Regulus look forward to that? Making the potion was completely foolhardy. Then again, he wouldn't be the one on the chopping block when Ahlman was caught with it.

No, no, there was something else that was bothering him.

Regulus rolled over on his side, staring at the long dark curtains that surrounded his bed.

_It's him, isn't it?_

A last, valiant attempt at banishing these thoughts from his mind, and he buried his face in the pillow.

_Him_, in the courtyard between classes, toying with the end of his tie as he lounged against the fountain. At dinner, telling some fantastic story to a very attentive Meredith Lavelle, who kept giggling and missing her mouth with her fork. Hanging off of James Potter's shoulder as he told a joke, laughing like an idiot even before all of the words were out of his mouth.

As if nothing in the world was wrong.

But everything _was_ wrong, Regulus knew, or else it wouldn't have made him feel so wretched to have to see Sirius Black's face at intermittent points during the day.

Within the hour directly after Sirius' name had been blasted off of the Black family tapestry, Regulus had carefully pinned the same name on his mental list of things that he would forevermore refuse to think about, if at all possible.

That was over three months ago, but it had felt like three years.

Before then, Regulus had been fairly comfortable never having encountered a person who was impossible to ignore. Now, it seemed impossible not to find such people -- they had a tendency of finding him.

He rolled over again, closed his eyes with a renewed conviction, and desperately tried to clear his thoughts.

This was _impossible_. At this rate, he would never get to sleep.

His bag was still at the foot of his bed.

He could try doing a bit of Charms homework -- dreary as it was -- couldn't he? It wouldn't hurt.

Regulus reached for his bag and dragged it into his lap, pulling drooping wrinkles over the bedclothes. His hands fumbled with the clasp until he got it open _finally_, feeling blindly around inside for some parchment and a quill.

Wait, parchment? Here was a piece. And a quill here, he could feel the floaty tendrils swaying along the feather, and some ink here, a cold glass bottle with a rubbery top.

Out of the bag and into his lap.

The parchment was already covered with bright purple scratches, so he reached again for another--

And stopped.

That wasn't his handwriting.

Definitely not. Much too loopy and elegant. He didn't even own purple ink. Putrid colour.

It wasn't Narcissa's, either – hers he could recognise.

Printed (with much pretension) at the top of the page were the bold words, "For Regulus Black".

Following such a formal heading was this:

_"I never suspected that it would be this difficult to write a letter to a stranger. To put it shortly: you don't know me. My name and face, perhaps, but assumptions are less than accurate._

_This is a turbulent time for our World, but for some of us in particular. Things are happening, and I know that you will have access to information about them soon. I need that information from you._

_What I propose is a trade. You will be properly compensated._

_There is little time to write, and I won't waste details here._

_Look under Callaghan the Curious' foot, in the statue of the Brethren of Rhyfeddon on the seventh floor._

_Yours,_

_A friend."_

-- CH 1 --

In some incorrect versions of the summary, it was stated that Regulus was a first year -- he's actually in fifth.

Special thanks to **puck nc** for doing a marvelous job of beta-reading.


	2. The Unattainable

**Chapter Two -- The Unattainable**   
_Wednesday, October 19, 1977_

Regulus looked at the statue in front of him with a face that implied that it might have been a particularly disgusting flobberworm.

The placard at the base of the plinth read, "The Brethren of Rhyfeddon" in proud, bold letters, the sort to make whoever happened to be reading them wonder why anyone would be proud of the frankly interesting assortment of _brethren_.

The four figures that had inspired the statue had a habit of popping up in wizard folklore, which was fare more savage and impossible to follow than the Muggle kind. Ogden the Odd was the leader, cast in copper, green with age, clutching a lantern held aloft. For more than one reason, Regulus decided, it was fortunate that the lantern didn't work -- primarily, because the lack of real lighting left this dead-end section of the hallway properly gloomy, and secondly, because Ogden the Odd's face was completely grotesque. Why his compatriots had let him hold the lantern in the first place was the real mystery.

Regulus kept his eyes away from Ogden's face and tried to think of some reason to be at this particular end of the corridor, nixing the idea that someone was actually stalking him -- or, as claimed, needed help.

He was certainly -- _decidedly!_ -- not avoiding it. Looking, that was. Under Callaghan's foot. He could have come and done it any time today, if he'd _wanted_ to. Which he hadn't. Probably.

He sucked in a long, slow breath. Maybe there would be nothing there; after all, this could be a joke. Ha, and he'd fallen for it!

He cast a look over his shoulder to make sure no one was around to laugh.

Callaghan the Curious -- wasn't he always the second in line? Lots of hair, too -- the one that was now balanced, upright, on the balls of his feet?

Instead of wasting more time deliberating whether or not his next action would look foolish, he swayed a bit closer to the statue. Very carefully.

Nothing attacked him.

Well.

He slipped his hand behind the grimy copper. His fingers searched for something there, anything there, coming back very dirty and very empty.

This was such a bother.

All right, the other foot, where was it? The base of the statue was massive -- he couldn't reach the right foot, pushed into the alcove as far back as it was. What was he going to have to do, shove himself back there and grope around in the dark until he found what he was looking for? He had other things to do, like homework -- not that he actually did his homework, but Regulus survived on excuses -- he didn't have to waste his time around here getting filthy for no reason. It was probably a joke anyway.

It was a pity that Callaghan wasn't the only curious one.

Abandoning any pretence of caution (and sanity, he was sure to reflect later), he let his backpack plunge to the floor and heaved himself into the alcove behind the massive sculpture. It was a rather tighter fit than he would have liked, but there it was, he'd done it.

It wasn't _so_ bad back here. There was probably room for another person. Could anyone have seen in from the outside? Probably not, Callaghan's fluffy tail was in the way -- wait, tail?

No getting distracted!

Resolutely, he crawled to Callaghan's other foot, his hands wavering in the darkness in front of him. Someone's leg...a foot! No, wrong foot. Over here, though, this was the one...

His fingers grazed something, something a good deal softer than metal. His palm crumpled over a neatly folded parchment square. At last, his prize!

Making careful movements toward the edge of the statue, he lowered himself to the floor. No one in sight. His robes were quite dusty, he noted with extreme distaste -- an impatient "_Scourgify_" cleaned that up.

He ripped the note open with greedy hands. It was written with as much care as the first, but this covered up most of the page in the same trail of quick purple ink.

_Regulus_, it read, in frail and faded penmanship.

_I apologise for being so vague. If it were possible to tell you everything, I would, but there are some things that you could never understand._

_As I said before, I need information. Choose to follow my instructions, and I will make things very advantageous for you._

_I don't know if you will ever read this, or write it off as a joke, or perhaps never know of it at all. I don't know anything about you; it's frustrating to ask such help of a stranger._

_If you have any intentions of giving me that help, I ask that you write a reply and hide it in the same spot. I will not fail to reply as soon as possible._

_I also ask for you to not talk of this letter, even to those you trust most. One stray word of yours could ruin things completely._

_Sincerely,_

_A friend._

And then, very suddenly, he had no idea what to do. Someone _was_ stalking him. And _why_?

Casting a bemused glance around -- at the statue, down the hall, at the dark and shadowed walls -- he folded the letter again, slipped it into his pocket, and picked up his bag. He would just forget about it. It was the only thing that seemed possible.

He made it about ten steps down the hallway.

There was a conjunction there, a long and empty corridor stretching off to the right and a bright window on the left. That was the point where his feet inexplicably stopped moving and left him stranded.

He couldn't just ignore this.

Say that this someone was actually in trouble. Say that _he_ was in trouble; wouldn't it be advantageous to do something about it now? Who needed specifics when there was the threat of danger?

Oh, but what if it was a lie, after all? Or even worse -- this _person_ could be dangerous. How much information did the anonymous psychopath need?

There was perhaps no harm in replying. Maybe just once, even, to get a feel for what they wanted.

Was he willing to do that?

Decisively, he spun on his heel and marched back to the statue. He opened his bag and felt around for a quill and parchment, fumbling with the bottle of ink as he sat down resolutely at the base of the statue.

Balancing the parchment on his knees, he quickly loaded his ink and scribbled his message onto the page.

_Hello_.

For some reason, that really didn't seem like enough.

_I don't know why you're writing to me_, he scrawled, well aware that his handwriting was barely discernible through his haste, _and you seem intent on not telling me what you want. I don't have time for that. I don't care about helping you._

That was true; how was he supposed to give some anonymous stranger a bit of sympathy when they weren't civil enough to even come out and ask for something specific?

_Just tell me what you want, and then leave me alone._

_My life is too sodding complicated already._

-----

Bellatrix had been sitting in the library for twenty minutes before Bourdelet bothered to show up.

It was hardly a promising start, Bellatrix noted as she watched the girl follow some invisible and circuitous path toward the table. If Bourdelet was determined to mess this up, it was an easily achievable goal. Closing the Herbology textbook she'd been revising with, Bellatrix raised her eyebrows as Bourdelet stopped, stock-still, a few feet from the table.

"Own a watch, Madeleine?"

"No," said Bourdelet simply, setting herself carefully on the edge of her chair. She looked much more at ease than she had the previous day, but not an ounce more productive. "I hope you haven't been waiting long," she said generously, resting her elbows lightly on the tabletop.

_Is that your new tactic,_ wondered Bellatrix, _feining indifference?_

It wouldn't work. They'd spent over six years in the same dormitory -- that history alone would have been enough to make Madeleine Bourdelet as clear as a bad Remembrall.

"Don't worry about it," suggested Bellatrix, her eyes coming to rest on the other girl's empty hands. "Did you even bring your Arithmancy?"

The battered text was procured nonchalantly from the small satchel slung over her shoulder. "You thought I'd forgotten it," Bourdelet deduced. It wasn't a question.

"Your track record isn't stellar," said Bella. Her own hands astonished her by trembling slightly when she moved her Herbology aside; she occupied them by rearranging the parchment she had laid out and getting her quill ready. "Now. Arithmancy."

"Fine," said Bourdelet, her eyes examining the table.

"We'll need a demonstration of basic numerology."

"I think Claire still has a copy of the third-year curriculum, that was only last year for her," said Bourdelet in a tone that suggested she wasn't even slightly interested in the conversation. "She'll probably still have the number chart."

"Good. You'll get it from her?"

"If you think we'll need it."

"Yes," said Bellatrix, scribbling this down on the parchment. "Calculating spells, as well. We can go through the indexes of our texts and find the important ones."

"Mm hmm."

She was, apparently, lost in thought. Undoubtedly a deliberate attempt at being frustrating. Then again, Bella's patience had never been particularly outstanding, and Bourdelet had a habit of running through it faster than most.

"What is it?" snapped Bella irritably, picking up her quill and glaring at the girl across from her, whose eyebrows quirked.

"Nothing. Keep going."

"I'm out of ideas," said Bella, eyeing her warily. "It's your turn."

"Oh," said Bourdelet, snapping upright. "Mauve," she said enthusiastically. "For the table cloth, I mean. It'll be brighter than the others and that'll draw attention. We'll bribe some third years into watching it all night, tell Amburn that it's for them to feel included, and then _you've_ got your Hallowe'en back. Better?"

"Yes," said Bellatrix, her mouth pulling outwards from the corners, just the merest bit.

"What are you going to be doing?" asked Bourdelet in a surprisingly unobtrusive manner, her eyes drifting off to the right.

"On Hallowe'en?" asked Bella, examining her parchment again.

"Yeah."

"I don't know," she answered automatically. "Rodolphus wanted to go into Hogsmeade, but I think we'll do that on Fri--" She stopped, caught herself. "Why?"

Bourdelet's shoulders wobbled in a thin shrug. "Why not? We could do something."

"I make a point of not 'doing things' with people that betray me, Bourdelet," said Bellatrix, trying very hard to keep expression from her voice.

Bourdelet's eyes lingered unconvincingly on the tabletop. "I didn't betray you, Bella."

Bellatrix made a face indicating that she severely doubted that, but muttered, very quickly, "Fine. Arithmancy."

"Right," said Bourdelet, looking even more deflated, "Arithmancy."

Bellatrix forced her train of thought back on track, which was much more difficult to do than she had anticipated. Bourdelet twiddled her thumbs.

"If you don't have anything else to contribute," said Bellatrix acidly, "Then you might as well leave."

"Oh," said Bourdelet, as though this had just occurred to her, "Yes, that's right."

Without another word she hopped up from the table and disappeared behind a long row of bookshelves. Stalked off to some other part of the library, probably -- what _did_ the antisocial do with their free time?

Bella dismissed that question and turned her head back to Arithmancy, once and for all.

In the Hogwarts library, there was a fairly constant ratio of one person pretending to study for every two people who actually were. Since Regulus Black's definitive planning skills barely extended past what he would do tomorrow afternoon, he never seemed to have intentions of actually doing work.

Father complained that Regulus lacked proper Slytherin ambition. Regulus argued that he had plenty of ambition, he just wasn't sure what he wanted to use it on.

At any rate, Regulus was quite comfortable seated behind a large astronomy textbook which was opened to a fairly random page, contemplating exactly what he was going to do about these letters.

The thing about secrets was that there always seemed to be some excuse for telling them.

The real problem was deciding whether or not this was an acceptable secret to tell.

Regulus contemplated this chain of logic for a bit longer over his astronomy book, remembering to flip the page over every once in a while to maintain the charade for Madam Pince. But within five minutes, it seemed, Regulus' contemplating and page-turning received a rude interruption in the form of a fourth-year girl who came trotting up to his table, looking quite pleased with herself as she tapped him on the shoulder.

It was Leigh Harrington. Not that he actually knew her -- Leigh Harrington was one of those people that could hardly walk to class without making sure she was noticed.

Her popularity was painfully intentional. The life of a teenage girl had always appeared secretive and complicated; there was twice as much smug and arrogant concealment with Leigh. She never walked into a room, but floated instead, her shoulders thrown back and her head lifted at the chin with definitive jauntiness.

At the moment, Leigh was shifting her weight to one foot, tucking the loose strands of her black hair behind an ear, and pinching her lips together as if she had something important to say.

Something important turned out to be: "Erm -- _Hi_!"

"Oh," said Regulus, "Uhem. I mean, hello!"

Anguish.

Leigh didn't notice this at all, or if she did, didn't care. "Sorry to interrupt," she continued happily, "but have you by any chance seen a scarf lying around here? I was at this table earlier today, during break, cramming for a Charms exam," she explained unnecessarily, peering over the table and squatting slightly to look down the row of chairs. "And now Claire wants to go outside to watch Edmund Brackis practise Quidditch..."

Regulus spent a split second coming up with the clever plan of staring at his feet, which he did for a moment until he saw the edge of a blue piece of cloth sticking out from beneath the chair next to him. His hand dove for it, quickly, pulling up a knitted bronze-and-blue scarf, complete with tassels and the embroidered letters, "LMH".

"Is this it?" he managed, "Ravenclaw?"

"Oh, yes, thank you!" said Leigh brightly, taking the scarf from him and spending a moment situating it around her neck, making sure to sweep her hair out again. "Well," she said absently, "I suppose I might see you later."

Regulus decided, privately, that he would look forward to that occurrence. Instead of announcing that, he said, in a rather unnatural voice, "Yeah, I suppose so."

It was interesting, though, that after Leigh scooted back out the library door, Regulus had a much more difficult time with his contemplation of letters.

-----

Regulus had made up his mind to tell Narcissa about the letters by the time that Astronomy rolled around. In truth, it was partly to see how she felt about the situation but mostly because she had spent the entire day in a preoccupied silence, broken only when necessary or whenever she felt the need to say something snide about Phoebus Ahlman.

Astronomy class was a weekly, dreary, bleary-eyed affair, held in the tall and draughty chamber at the top of the tallest tower. Professor Lucent had a uniquely vexing habit of stalking slowly around the room to keep everyone on task, which made off-topic conversations twice as difficult.

Tonight, Regulus couldn't afford such an interruption.

Narcissa was working next to him, but deeply immersed in the miserably crooked diagram etched on her parchment.

A quick glance around the room assured that Lucent was on the other side of the room, patiently helping Eugene Finkley through his persistent protests that Aldebaran had simply vanished from the sky.

Regulus spun back around to face the large window.

"Narcissa--?"

"Hang on a minute, would you?" she said, picking up her telescope again and attempting to readjust it. "Where's that stupid..."

"If you're talking about Ahlman, 'Cissa, he's right over there."

Narcissa snorted. "No, I can't find beta Tauri."

"Your picture's lopsided," said Regulus helpfully.

She contracted the telescope with a _snap_ and shot him a distinctly brittle look. "What were you saying, Regulus?"

"Oh yeah, that..."

It was dead ironic that the moment he was given his opportunity, he'd lost his conviction.

His brain was screaming for logic.

_But what if...?_

Narcissa looked at him expectantly for a minute, until an unwarranted comprehension dawned across her face. She narrowed her eyes and turned back to the window.

"If it's about Ahlman," she snapped, "don't even bother."

He breathed an involuntary sigh of relief.

Sarcastically, he intoned, "It wasn't, but you seem eager enough."

She utterly surprised him by proving him right. Without so much as a further prompting, she set her quill down and leaned toward him with a fierce whisper.

"It's about that potion," she said, under the pretence of examining Regulus' star chart. Was Lucent looking?

Narcissa continued anyway. "If Ahlman gets the Draught, he could use it to find out what _we're_ doing. He could start watching _us_."

The thought of such a thing hadn't even crossed his mind. See what happened, he mused, when one spent so much time plotting?

As if to prove him right, Narcissa was still staring at his face with a maniacal glint in her eyes, looking frighteningly deranged.

Carefully, he said, "Well, what do we do to stop that? You already told him you'd make it, after all."

Narcissa paused. Swivelling to pick up her quill, she cast casual eyes down the parchment in front of her.

"We just have to stay away from whoever drinks the potion," she said matter-of-factly. "They'll the be the one Ahlman is watching."

"And who _is_ that?"

Before Narcissa could reply, they were abruptly interrupted when Lucent made a dry coughing noise in the back of her throat, a none-too-well-disguised warning. They smiled at her sheepishly.

A moment or two passed in silence, as Lucent inspected their charts, her head looming over their shoulders. Finding nothing substantial to complain about (though her eyes did linger on Narcissa's lopsided Taurus), she pulled a perfunctory spin and swept away to find other students to harass.

Narcissa started whispering again, almost immediately.

"What do you mean, 'who is that'?" she hissed, pulling out her telescope again.

"Well, who's Ahlman feeding it to?"

"No one. He's selling it to somebody, and _they're_ feeding it to someone else." Narcissa snorted. "Very hands-off, Phoebus is."

"_Well_," said Regulus with growing annoyance, "Who is he selling it to?"

"He'd never willingly tell us," she said in an offhand manner. "Unless, that is, you're planning on beating it out of him."

Regulus smiled hollowly. "You fancy a duel with Ahlman? No? Good choice. Remember what happened to poor Maddox--"

She winced involuntarily at the memory of their classmate's less-than-successful squabble with Ahlman the previous year. "Yes, I remember," she said, "so we won't beat it out of him."

"Well, you'll have to come up with something," said Regulus. He picked up his quill and resumed his star labelling. "How do you stay away from someone who has the power to betray your every move?"

Narcissa twisted her telescope restlessly. "I dunno. Will you ask Ahlman about it?"

"And say what?"

"Just tell him not to use it against us." She bit her lip. "He'd never agree to that, would he?"

"It's worth trying," said Regulus.

Lucent's shrill voice interrupted Narcissa's reply. "Back on task, you two. Five points from Slytherin -- it'll be ten if you carry on this way."

-----

It was no surprise that they were bombarded the minute they set foot out the door. A harassed-looking Phoebus Ahlman glanced cautiously backward at Professor Lucent, who was still gathering scrolls, before grabbing each of their arms and setting off down a nondescript side hallway at a remarkable pace.

"Where are we going?" asked Regulus, allowing himself to be led through the hallway without protest.

Phoebus ignored this question completely and poked his head around the corner. Finding the coast to be clear, rounded it.

"Phoebus," said Narcissa, in the menacing voice of one whose wrist was in danger of being pulled apart, "What are you doing?"

"I'm showing you your new laboratory, that's what. Stop talking. They'll hear you."

"Who'll hear us?"

"Shh!"

"I swear we've already been down this hallway. Are you sure you aren't lost?"

"Shut up."

"Phoebus--" started Narcissa

"Here it is," said Phoebus, cutting her off neatly. "Grace should be meeting us here..."

'Here' turned out to be a high-ceilinged chamber behind a plain wooden door, one that Regulus had never noticed before. Inside was the tall sweep of supporting arches, broad stone floor, and bright ochre light emanating from the studded torches that lined the room.

"Wow," said Regulus, completely floored.

Narcissa's eyebrows lifted neatly. "What _is_ this?"

"A show of good faith from our buyer," replied Phoebus, strutting to the centre of the room where a scrubbed wooden table was set up with a small cauldron, burner, phial set, and more; potion ingredients sprawled across its surface. Sitting cross-legged on the floor was Grace, propped up on a poufy pillow and flipping determinedly through the potion book.

"What?" said Narcissa, stopping in mid-step. "We've already got a buyer?"

"A well-connected one," said Grace, who looked up from the aged text and flashed them a thin smile. "They told us about this place, and we're using it to make their potion. A lovely arrangement, wouldn't you say?"

"I don't get it," said Regulus, quite unnecessarily. "I've never seen this room before."

"Room of Requirement, something or other," said Phoebus, walking over to the table and examining its contents. "A room for anything you need at the moment. And yes, in case you were wondering, I do have extensive future plans for this place."

Narcissa looked sardonically unsurprised. "Phoebus," she said slowly, "I think we're all moving too fast. We don't have a potion yet, and already you've promised it to someone!"

"A matter of faith in you!" said Phoebus unconcernedly, setting himself down next to Grace.

"I can hardly believe this," snapped Narcissa, the remnants of her impressed surprise fading quickly.

"'Mazing," said Regulus vaguely.

"That's not what I meant!"

Phoebus shrugged. "Grace, pass the butterbeer."

"Are these scales solid gold?"

"Apparently we require only the best."

Grace looked pointedly at Narcissa. "Are you going to get started?"

"Wait," Narcissa gritted out, ignoring Grace completely. "Phoebus. We've got to talk to you."

With this, she sent a significant look at Regulus, who was busying himself with opening his own butterbeer. An across-the-room conference ensued, mostly containing Narcissa's furious gestures and much brow-furrowing on Regulus' part.

"Oh, yeah," he started, finally remembering her words earlier. He spun to face Phoebus. "You can't use this potion against us. You can't make us drink it, or use what anyone else sees against us."

Narcissa sighed, probably out of exasperation with this delivery.

"Okay," said Phoebus.

Narcissa did a double-take. "_What_?"

Phoebus looked amused. "I said, 'okay'. Common slang affirmative?"

"I know what you said!" retorted Narcissa. "It just seems a bit out of character for someone without a shred of respect for anyone else."

"Narcissa!" Phoebus set his butterbeer on the floor in front of him and brushed his hands off. "I'm not selling this potion to your enemies. I'm not out to get you. Other people, sure, but not you."

She looked mildly surprised, but mollified. "Really? You mean that?"

"Probably."

"So you'll help me with revenge, if I wanted you to?" asked Narcissa shrewdly, her eyes narrowing the slightest bit.

"Of course not," said Phoebus swiftly. He took a swig of butterbeer while Narcissa sighed in agitation. "You must understand," he said placatingly, "I'm doing this for my own good, not anyone else's."

Grace's eyebrows lifted slightly. "What about mine?"

"Well," said Phoebus generously, "_maybe_ yours."

Narcissa interrupted with a rather obvious cough. "What do we have in the way of potion ingredients?"

"Most of what we need I brought in from the student stores," said Grace, rearranging a rack of crystal phials. "We have all but the Amphisbaena venom, I should think."

"_Amphisbaena venom_?" choked Narcissa, "Where do you want me to get it, Knockturn Alley?"

"We'll burn that bridge when we come to it," said Phoebus, evidently unconcerned.

"Erm," said Regulus uneasily, "You mean 'cross', don't you?"

"Probably."

Narcissa shook her head wearily. "I'm going to bed. We'll start tomorrow."

Phoebus shrugged. "If you're leaving, we might as well come along."

"We're staying," said Grace, with a small cough.

"What?"

"We should -- ah -- stay for a bit. To, y'know, make sure all the ingredients are in order. And stuff."

"Stuff?" said Phoebus quizzically. "_Oh_! Yes. Very important, that."

Narcissa rolled her eyes. "Let's go," she said, with a significant look at Regulus.

Following Narcissa around all day really did get tiresome, Regulus reflected, as he pulled himself up. He left his butterbeer on the table.

"You think they're snogging?" asked Narcissa as soon as the door shut behind them.

Regulus nearly tripped over his own feet. He had absolutely no desire to know about it, but before he could say so, something else hit him: they were on the seventh floor. So was the _statue_.

"I'll...meet you in the common room, all right?" said Regulus, looking for a plausible excuse. None came to mind readily.

Narcissa raised her eyebrows slightly. "What?"

He bit his lip, but composed his expression quickly. "Restroom," he said, and forced a small laugh. Honestly, was there any way to get rid of her for a few minutes?

"Oh," said Narcissa, smiling awkwardly. Evidently, she was buying it; her face was still preoccupied. "I'm just going to bed, then, so I'll see you in the morning...?"

"Right. Bye."

He stood uncomfortably in the middle of the hallway until she disappeared with a small wave around the corner; then, he spun around and headed back to the statue at the other end of the hallway.

Was there even a reply yet? It was worth a check, for all the good his nerves were doing him. Without even bothering to check that he was alone, he hoisted himself behind the statue and felt around for the parchment, eventually finding it when his fingers knocked it from behind Callaghan's foot.

Was it the same parchment he had placed there, or a different one? He couldn't tell. Crawling back into the light, he brushed himself off and held it up to the nearest torch, squinting...

It was a new one.

That information turned out to do very little for his nerves.

There was nothing left to lose by opening it.

Thoroughly frustrated, he ripped open the letter in anticipation of yet another vague and needy message, of something worse that was waiting for him around the proverbial corner.

Instead, there was a startling and impossible paragraph of that small and dainty handwriting, something perfectly simple that no one had bothered to tell him in recent history.

And it began,

_I know how you feel_.

-- CH 2 --

In some incorrect versions of the summary, it was stated that Regulus was a first year -- he's actually in fifth.

Special thanks to **puck nc** for doing a marvelous job of beta-reading.


	3. Unexpected Happenings

**Chapter Three -- Unexpected Happenings**   
_Friday, October 28, 1977_

The Slytherin common room had always been a draughty, poorly lit chamber, facts that had sparked more than their fair share of rumours about the Slytherins themselves. The dungeons were grim and their inhabitants grimmer, or so the other houses believed.

Personally, Regulus was disgusted with both the state of his common room and the state of the attitude toward his house. However, there was little to be done about it on an unremarkable Friday morning break, as long as he was planted on the couch before the fireplace. It was the ideal place for brooding.

On the whole, the day had been uneventful. Most of his housemates had abandoned the common room for the Great Hall or library, but quiet figures were scattered throughout the room, amid the low rustling of page-turning and the occasional piercing cough.

Regulus had spent most of this free morning seated where he was now, lounging on a couch; there were a million thoughts running through his head, and none of them were particularly welcome.

For a week and a half, the phenomenon of the statue notes had continued. He checked there daily, and was always rewarded with a page of faded, spindly ink. Gradually, the content changed. Hints of impending doom had been replaced with musings on human nature; there were discussions, long parchment conversations, about life. Secrets were shared.

In truth, Regulus still knew little about the identity of his anonymous correspondent. It had almost stopped bothering him. As days dragged by, the austere, clean hand had abandoned the ambiguity of his former label -- "A friend" -- and had given himself a name, something to relate his character to: Gale.

It was a fitting name. Short, clean, and simple.

For Regulus, the adventure had turned from a fancy to a necessity -- where before it had been inconsequential, it was suddenly profound. For Gale, it had turned from a necessity to a fancy -- urgency and fear replaced with a rare sentimentality.

Regulus was resolved to put the matter to rest; there was little use worrying his mind with maudlin rubbish of little use to his life in Slytherin. Instead, there was the hearth, couch, and common room -- all bleak and unappealing.

Colleen Fletcher was seated on a table, behind Regulus' couch, building a card castle with her large hand of captured Exploding Snap cards. It was more or less a success as card castles went; she'd certainly had enough practice. The flimsy structure tottered slightly when she moved, but each movement was purposeful; her wiry, ginger-coloured bob barely shifted as she sat back to survey her handiwork.

"You've been odd lately," said Colleen, not taking her eyes from the card tower.

Regulus tried not to start in surprise -- unsuccessfully.

"I have a lot on my mind." He slouched lower against the couch, as uncomfortable as it was.

Colleen looked unimpressed. "Oh, really. The details of your existence are dreadful, I'm sure."

"What do you mean?" he asked, frowning.

She lifted her eyebrows a fraction as she gently added another crosspiece. "Face it, Regulus. You're a _Black_. You don't have anything to complain about."

"You try it and see how much you like it."

"I wouldn't if I could," said Colleen lightly.

"What's your diagnosis, then?" he asked, looking at her wearily over the back of the couch.

"Too much time spent thinking about problems rather than solving them."

Regulus snorted. "It's a good job you know everything. Otherwise, people would have to take care of their own lives."

"Calm down, Regulus, I'm trying to help," said Colleen, frowning at him. She turned back to her cards without further comment.

"Sorry." He paused. "Colleen."

"Hmm?"

"What do you think about secrets?"

She shrugged loftily, but not so much that it disturbed her delicate construction. "I dunno. Does the secret matter much?"

Regulus bit his lip. "I'm not sure."

Further probing was interrupted by the grating of the stone door, which swept open to reveal a very disgruntled-looking Bellatrix. Without so much as a glance around the room, she strode toward Regulus' couch.

"Regulus."

"I thought you were in Amburn's room," he said, watching her sit beside him on the couch. "All right?"

She made a face, sweeping her hair back with one hand. "We can't find anyone willing to stick around the Arithmancy table at that blasted Festival."

"No one? What about Christie Thompson, from Hufflepuff?"

Bella wrinkled her nose. "Says she's got Gobstone Player's Club. Rubbish, if you ask me."

"What about that Ravenclaw, McKinley? Judith Whitley?"

"It's no good!" She threw up her hands and fell back into the couch, staring listlessly at the ceiling. "No one's willing to do it, not even McKinley. She got pretty defensive when I asked her, though I suppose it didn't help that Ilian Neven looked ready to pounce on her."

Regulus cast pensive eyes around the common room, hoping -- over there, that would do it. By the windowsill, Madeleine Bourdelet was bent over a flimsy paperback novel, her bored, haughty face unreadable.

"Can't you make Bourdelet do it?" he asked, turning back to Bellatrix.

"Can anyone make Bourdelet do anything?" she retorted, throwing a disgruntled glare at that familiar blonde head.

"Well, who are you going to--" realisation dawned, as he recognised Bella's anxious expression. "Oh, no. _I'm_ not doing it."

Bellatrix sighed. "Please, Regulus, I don't want to spend all evening standing around some stupid display table and showing off for uptight Ministry of Magic workers."

"Neither do I!"

She looked sour, turning back to the fireplace with her arms folded tightly across her chest.

Regulus heaved a sigh. Experience had taught him that being set between Bellatrix and whatever she wanted was not a good position to be in. That did nothing to diminish his frustration.

Mentally cursing himself, he said, "Wait."

Bellatrix turned toward him cautiously, without letting a trace of appeasement creep onto her face.

"If you can get one more person, then I'll do it," he said, grimacing nonetheless.

"You will?" Bellatrix looked immediately mollified, flinging her arms unceremoniously over his shoulders.

"I don't have any intentions of speaking to these Ministry people," he warned her, as his head was pulled forcibly against her throat.

"I'll see what I can do." she promised; though he couldn't see it, she was no doubt wearing a familiar mischievous smile. "Maybe one of the Ravenclaws will crack -- Thanks, Regulus, I suppose I owe you a favour?"

"You owe me a million favours," he corrected, faltering slightly under the weight of her hug.

With a laugh she released him, leaping to her feet with her usual poise. "I'm going to go find Rodolphus," she announced, "I'll let you know if we can get anyone else for the Festival."

So saying, she left the common room with Colleen Fletcher's discontented eyes boring into her back.

"She always gets what she wants, doesn't she?" observed Colleen neutrally.

"What's your point?" asked Regulus, glaring at her over the back of the couch.

"No point," she said, turning back to her card castle with a noncommittal shrug.

Regulus couldn't quite bring himself to believe her.

-----

"I'm beginning to think that we're going to have to rob Professor Vance's personal storage room."

Judging by the determinedly nonchalant expression Narcissa was wearing, she expected some kind of reaction to such a statement. Regulus, seated across the sputtering cauldron in the middle of the otherwise-unoccupied Room of Requirement, refused to give her one.

"For Amphisbaena venom?" he asked evenly, flipping over another page of his Transfiguration textbook. "And how do you propose to do that?"

Narcissa smirked and reached over to stir the unsavoury concoction. "I'm sure we'll be able to think of something."

Over the past week and a half, she had boiled, stirred, and brewed the Draught into what they could only assume was the perfect consistency: a dark, murky green bubbling thickly in their simmering cauldron. Phoebus hadn't felt the need to say much to them about it, except when he paused after class the previous Friday to announce that he expected it to be done in a week. This had brought about a heated discussion of how he intended to find their missing ingredient; in the end, he told them lightly that it was their own affair (with a hand resting casually on his wand), and the issue was never brought up again.

Regulus had no real feelings on the matter. If Narcissa was willing to risk expulsion from the school for a damned phial of venom, then she would be more than welcome to do so. It wasn't really his potion at all. He admitted with a stinging distaste that he was more often than not dragged into these kinds of _adventures_ against his own will.

Which was really what things had been, recently -- adventures. Anonymous stalkers and illegal potions were no longer frightening or foreboding in the least. It had started out that way, at least -- an adventure, with nothing at stake to lose. He had no idea when that unidentifiable moment had occurred, but realised with a jolt that at some point, he had begun to care about things.

It was unsettling. Suppose, for instance, that things changed again -- what would this adventure look like in retrospect? What would happen when it was over?

This was certainly not the time to be thinking of such eventualities. For one thing, Narcissa was talking again, filling the silence with insignificant chatter about the happenings at Hogwarts (Regulus had never thought himself unobservant until he had discovered the full range of Narcissa's capacity for gossip. Now there seemed no end to the riotous rumours, none of which were particularly important and all of which were insatiably interesting).

More important than Narcissa's prattle was the fact that his Transfiguration grade was slowly but surely making a downward plunge. This last resort -- a scant twenty minutes in front of his textbook -- was dwindling quickly.

Far too quickly, Narcissa was back on track with their relatively single-sided conversation, and the bell was ready to signal the start of McGonagall's regular torture.

"As for the venom -- we'll need a definite plan," said Narcissa glibly.

"When?" asked Regulus, chewing carefully on the tip of his quill.

"Two nights from tonight," she answered, after a moment of swift thinking. "That will be our only shot; the venom will have to be added as soon as we get it."

"And the blood?" asked Regulus, grimacing at the thought. Besides the venom, the Draught's prime ingredient was the blood of its intended user -- Phoebus Ahlman.

"We'll get it before the Festival," said Narcissa, unconcerned. "That's one day in advance. It will stay fresh enough, I hope."

Regulus made a face.

-----

In Regulus' personal opinion, Professor McGonagall's fifth-year Transfiguration class could be described with a mere handful of words: dull, dreary, and uninteresting. Narcissa had never agreed with him on this front, something that he didn't understand in the least. Nonetheless, it was _his_ grade that was falling, and skiving off in favour of life's more interesting tasks -- a walk around the lake, for instance -- was no longer an option.

These resentful thoughts were banished immediately when they arrived to an unpleasant surprise: standing upright on the rows of desks were empty glass cups, spaced at regular intervals. McGonagall's chair was empty, but that wasn't incentive for any unruly behaviour among her students. McGonagall was famous for both appearing without a moment's notice and handing out strict punishments without second thought. No one seemed ready to cross school rules even without her present.

"What's going on?" asked Narcissa sharply of a Hufflepuff classmate, who shrugged in a nervous sort of way.

"Hands-on demonstrations, I should think," replied the Hufflepuff. Narcissa smiled wanly; whether it was at the sight of his rumpled shirt collar or at the implications he might be capable of thought, Regulus couldn't tell.

"Come on," sniffed Narcissa to Regulus, shaking her hair away from her shoulders. With her white hand looped firmly through his elbow, she led him back to more familiar territory: the Slytherin side of the room, to their usual seats. Colleen Fletcher was sitting nearby, listening sceptically to a rumour Maddox Prewett had overheard from the seventh-years. Regulus decided to ignore her.

Mysteries about their unorthodox new supplies were put aside when McGonagall strode impatiently through the door behind her desk, immediately hushing all conversations. She looked the same as ever, straight-backed, her hands bustling with papers on her over-organised desk.

At the sight of their teacher, the students hurried to their seats, the talking on both sides of the classroom dying to a low murmur. McGonagall turned toward them with a stack of parchment that she immediately handed to a plaited Hufflepuff girl to dole out among the students.

"Thank you, Lydia," said McGonagall, turning brusquely to the chalkboard, where an eraser was lazily wiping the remains of last lesson's notes off the dusty green surface. With a stiff wave of her wand, a piece of chalk rose swiftly and began tapping out a long list of instructions in stark, yellow strokes.

"Today will be the first of a series of practical demonstrations on conjuration," said McGonagall, her spectacled eyes following the Hufflepuff Lydia's slow progression through the room. "Your task will be to fill the glasses I have provided with water, using only your wand. You may work in pairs. I dearly hope that the notes you have made during our past sessions prove adequate."

Lydia handed a small sheaf of parchment to Narcissa and moved onward; Narcissa groaned as she read over the instructions.

"This is impossible, I can't believe she's starting us on this already," whispered Narcissa fiercely to Regulus, handing him a paper.

He passed the others to Maddox and Colleen before reading it over. _Apparet Aqua_, it said at the top, _A Study of Beginning Conjuration_.

With little ado they set about practising, the scrape of moving chairs adding to the din as the students divided into the required pairs. Colleen snatched Narcissa by the arm and flashed her a remarkably wolfish smile. This left Regulus with the prospect of Maddox Prewett, who was sitting back from the quick claiming of partners in resignation, his arms folded across his chest.

Regulus had never been on particularly bad terms with Maddox -- a surprise, considering Maddox's quick temper and unusual capacity for holding grudges. Now seemed as good a time as any to cash in on that record.

Maddox seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

"McGonagall will end up pairing us with Hufflepuffs if we don't get a move on," said Maddox with a wry smile, rolling up his sleeves. "What do you say: partners?"

"Better than anyone else," mumbled Regulus, busying himself with the task of turning his Transfiguration guide to the appropriate page. "D'you actually know anything about conjuring?"

"Last I can remember, we were still turning matchsticks into needles," said Maddox blandly, pulling out his wand. "Somewhere in between there and now is, oh, four years or so?"

"Something like that," said Regulus with a smirk. "You first."

Maddox pulled a face of mock indignation and sniffed airily. "What's the incantation?"

"_Apparet aqua_."

"Right," said Maddox, clearing his throat. His wand at the ready, he addressed the empty glass and said, with a magnificent swish-and-flick, "_Apparet aqua_!"

The air around the glass flickered and crackled uneventfully. Not a drop of water appeared inside.

Maddox put his wand down with a shrug. "Your turn to try, Black. Make it count."

Try he did; in fact, over the course of thirty minutes there was much trying, and nothing that really counted. Not a single drop of water had appeared to anyone in the room. This didn't deter McGonagall in the least; she was still pacing the length of her classroom (with a very self-satisfied look, Regulus thought) and offering a few measly words of help to those who were floundering on the edge of giving up.

There were certainly many that were. Even Colleen Fletcher had lost her usual cool-headed composure, and several Hufflepuffs looked to be on the verge of tears.

"This is getting a bit pathetic," said Regulus, as he watched Narcissa poking at the glass with her wand. "No one'll finish the task at this rate."

"Mmm," said Maddox vaguely, who was paying his partner very little attention in favour of eaves-dropping on the group behind them, "be quiet a minute, would you--?"

"What?"

Maddox swatted a hand at him, pressing a finger to his lips.

Obediently, though reluctantly, Regulus listened. He immediately wished he hadn't.

On the row behind them, amidst inappropriate giggles and snickers, an intense gossip circle had convened.

"Just like that," Judith Whitley of Slytherin was saying, much more loudly than was wise, "In the middle of the summer, he just _left_. Ran away. He didn't tell anyone about it beforehand, and there was nothing they could do about it afterward, was there?"

"Ran away?" tittered her friend, the ever-so-irritating Elizabeth Blakeney. "He had the nerve to run away, from a family like _that_?"

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Regulus caught on to what they were talking about.

Judith was laughing, waving her wand idly in the direction of their still-empty glass cup. "Sirius Black is a Gryffindor, not a Slytherin. A pity, too, he seems marvellously talented--"

Regulus' face burned what was presumably a very unattractive shade of red. He swallowed thickly, swivelling slowly in his seat to stare at the empty glass on his desktop, fighting valiantly against the unavoidable racing of his pulse and the pounding in his ears...

Maddox suddenly realised what was going on. Awkwardly, he straightened and turned nervously to Regulus, with a half-hearted, "We should really try again..."

A shrieking peal of giggles cut off his sentence.

"Ignore them," said Maddox quickly, "They don't know what they're talking about, they're--"

Regulus wasn't listening to him anymore. Hardly aware of what he was doing, he spun around to face the whispering group of his Housemates.

"Judith Whitley," he spat, ignoring Elizabeth's gasp of surprise, "I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your ill-informed gossip away from _my_ family."

"Ill-informed?" said Judith, with a lofty smirk, "I heard it from Peter Pettigrew himself!"

"You don't know what you're talking about!"

Her smiling lips parted, revealing crooked teeth. "Don't I? Why don't you tell us all the real story, then?"

It was completely intolerable, that self-assured smile.

Before anyone could stop him he was on his feet, completely oblivious to Judith's Galleon-sized eyes or the chorus of gasps that rippled down the row. No one had time to warn him just before--

"Mr. Black! Might I inquire as to what you're doing out of your seat?"

It was McGonagall. She was on them in a flash, eyes flaring, adjusting her spectacles with slender fingers as the whole class watched with bated breath.

Dead silence. Regulus had opened his mouth, waiting for the sound of his own voice, which never arrived. Maddox shifted uncomfortably as Judith Whitley looked triumphant, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I see," said McGonagall, with a raising of her thin eyebrows. "It would appear, then, that you've finished learning your spells? In that case, why don't you give a demonstration?"

No one spoke. It felt as though Regulus' entire body had seized up under McGonagall's stare, under the watch of so many familiar eyes. Ever so slowly he turned, fixing his eyes dazedly on the empty glass cup and drawing his wand with fumbling fingers.

"We're waiting, Mr. Black."

Regulus nodded mutely, raising his trembling wand.

Transfiguration was a curious thing. As hard as Regulus tried at it, there always seemed some elusive ingredient that was impossible to catch. Trying to turn one object into another -- or, indeed, trying to call the required stream of water from thin air -- invariably sent him spinning in a confusing, clammy state that was neither conducive to spellwork, as he knew all too well.

Presently, he cleared his throat and tightened a sweaty hand around his wand, sucking in a deep breath to clear his nerves.

The room seemed to shrink. Every eye was trained on him, the harsh echoes of snickering ringing in the background...

Closing his eyes, Regulus lifted his wand and said, "_Apparet aqua_!"

There was a singular, light-headed moment in which a tingling sensation shot down his arm and burst through his fingertips like a jet of lightning. It wasn't the usual spurt of energy required for Transfiguration, though -- it was wildly unnatural and left his whole right arm cold and numb.

His eyes snapped open in time to see it happen.

There was no gentle trickling of water from wandpoint, but an unstoppable, violent burst, exploding in a brilliant glow and gushing over the tabletop. The glass was bowled over and shattered on the stone floor in a wave. On either side, Maddox and Narcissa jumped out of the way, chairs tumbling over, as water ran across the desktops and splashed over their robes...

It stopped, just as suddenly, leaving him shaking, dripping, with his hands clutched in fists and his wand glowing hot.

Everyone was quiet for what seemed like several minutes. His throat burned; his cheeks must have been bright red. Shakily, he sat down at his seat, completely oblivious to the pool of water puddled in it already.

Without comment, McGonagall walked to where he sat and performed a drying charm.

"Mr. Black, please meet me after class at my desk," said McGonagall, giving him a very curious look over her spectacles.

He managed to nod.

After McGonagall swept away and the room broke out in a tidal wave of whispers, Narcissa turned toward her cousin. Her eyes were wide.

"What in _Hades_--?" She faltered. "Regulus, what on earth has happened to you?"

Wordlessly, he slumped face first onto his desk. His robes still felt wet. He had been completely drenched.

No one, not even Maddox, bothered him for the rest of the lesson. When the bell finally rang, he stayed in his seat until the classroom cleared around him, students leaving amid loud chattering and whooping to a free afternoon.

He stayed in his chair until waiting any longer seemed completely pointless; in abject defeat, he roused himself and walked stoically to McGonagall's desk, where she was scribbling furiously across a long piece of parchment.

He swallowed; it was difficult. "You wanted to see me?"

"Sit down, Black," said McGonagall, indicating the seat nearest her desk. He pulled it carefully over, deliberately setting it as far back from her desk as he could. She seemed to take no notice of this. Carefully, she set down her quill and gave him a hard, indescribable look. "How's your family life, Regulus?"

He was so surprised he nearly toppled out of the chair. "_Excuse me_?"

McGonagall ignored his outburst. "I know that things must be harder on you now that your brother is gone--"

"I don't have a brother," said Regulus quickly.

His throat was burning again. How many times today was this going to happen?

"--Very difficult, I see," said McGonagall, her thin eyebrows creasing. "You've never been a bad Transfiguration student, but I'll be forced to write to your parents if this continues--"

He drew in a ragged breath. "I'm fine. I don't need any help."

There were several moments of reluctant silence. McGonagall retrieved her quill and waved it in dismissal. "Very well, then. You may go."


	4. Anonymous

**Chapter Four -- Anonymous**

_Monday, October 31, 1977_

Long before the day had any business arriving, it seemed, Hallowe'en dawned without a hitch on its rather unfortunate Monday.

Charms, Runes, and Potions lessons zipped by without incident, the teachers having apparently given up on keeping anyone's attention for a half-day of classes. The situation altogether was looking surprisingly upbeat, even when one was Regulus Black and therefore dreading the approach of the Founder's Day Festival.

As it turned out, Diana McKinnon, seventh-year Ravenclaw, had less than impressive alternate plans for Hallowe'en night. As a result, McKinnon had finally caved and agreed to be dragged bodily to the Arithmancy display table for the Festival. Her natural perfectionism had taken over at some point since then, and no one was expecting anything less than a spectacular performance on her part, reluctant though it was.

Before the Festival, however, a certain group of fifth-year students was hastily conducting their penultimate meeting in the Room of Requirement.

"You're getting the Amphisbaena venom from Vance's personal storage?" Phoebus demanded, still none too pleased with the state of things.

"Tonight," said Narcissa wearily. "Look, all I need you to do is fill _this_ phial with _your_ blood, or the potion isn't going to work anyway."

"Fine," said Phoebus sullenly, snatching the phial from her hand.

"Use this," said Grace, producing a small knife from her robe pocket. "It came from the Potions room, but I've cleaned it well enough."

"Where am I supposed to cut?" asked Phoebus distractedly, rolling his sleeve up to examine his rather pale left arm.

"Right across your wrist," said Regulus helpfully.

If looks could kill, Regulus Black would have been sprawled on the floor in the face of a hefty _Avada Kedavra_, but as it was, he remained cheerfully upright in the face of Phoebus' glare.

Fuming, Phoebus plucked the tiny knife from Grace's fingertips. "The back of your hand will do well," said Grace dryly, helping him adjust his sleeve.

With an uncharacteristic delicacy, Phoebus sliced carefully through a spidery blue vein. "_Ow!_" He winced, his fingers fumbling over the phial.

"Stop your whinging," said Narcissa carelessly, making an attempt at opening the phial for him. He wrenched it out of her reach, shooting her a venomous glare.

"Slice yourself open and then tell me not to complain," he suggested, managing to uncork the phial at last and catch a dribble of the velvet red liquid as it dripped messily down the back of his hand, a delta of dark rivulets. He held the phial steady as it slowly filled, before Narcissa managed to snatch it away and put the stopper back in.

"Let me see it," said Grace abruptly, grabbing Phoebus' bloody hand. She dug around in her robe pocket, drawing out a clean white handkerchief and pressing it to the wound.

Phoebus looked unabashedly content.

"All that's left to do is add the venom and the blood, and I'll do that later on tonight, as soon as I _get_ the venom," Narcissa was saying as she wiped off the outside of the phial. "Is that good enough for you?"

"I suppose it will have to be," said Phoebus, as Grace tied the impromptu bandage around his hand. Narcissa pointedly ignored her.

"Do you want something else, or are we allowed to go?"

"Go ahead," said Phoebus, though he scowled at them all the way out the door.

"Twerp," said Narcissa in the safety of the hallway. "I hope that hand really hurts him."

"I think it's a wonder you agreed to make the thing at all," said Regulus with a small laugh.

"The Televoyance Draught is certainly valuable," said Narcissa, with such an odd, wistful tone that Regulus turned to look at her. She smiled wanly as they passed the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.

"You don't say," said Regulus absently. "I hope you didn't put anything wrong in that potion, it'd only make a huge mess if--"

"There's nothing wrong with that potion," said Narcissa, laughing as they descended the stairwell. "It's as perfect as I could make it."

"Then what are you planning?" asked Regulus bluntly.

Narcissa raised her eyebrows at him. "You think I'm planning something? I dare say you accuse me unjustly."

"I'll believe that when the potion works," said Regulus.

Narcissa was still smiling. He wasn't sure exactly what it was, but there was something wrong with that smile.

-----

Unbeknownst to the fifth years' scheming, another group of students had convened in the considerably less comfortable Entrance Hall broom cupboard. Amidst upturned buckets and crates of Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover, four seventh years were crouching in the darkness.

"You could have at least chosen a better place to wait, Prongs, this closet smells like _mildew_--"

"Where would you have us wait, under a table in the Great Hall?"

"There would certainly be more room, wouldn't there?"

"Shh!"

"I'm quite comfortable, I'll have you know."

"It's a wonder, considering that you're sitting on my _feet_."

"_Shh_!!"

There was a scrambled moment of resituating, punctuated by a few choice exclamations, undoubtedly the result of being squashed, elbowed, or stepped on -- intentionally or otherwise. When everyone seemed satisfied with his new position, or at least convinced that further violence would be too obviously deliberate, the conversation started up again as though there had been no interruption at all.

"Easy with the shushing, Moony, no one can hear us."

"I'm trying to hear _them_," said Remus, "Entirely unsuccessful with you lot jabbering on, I might add."

"Sorry to hear it," said Sirius, who did not sound sorry at all. "Next time, Prongs can sit on _your _feet, and we'll hear you be quiet about it."

"James, hit him, will you?"

"Peter's closer."

"I'm not hitting anyone," said Peter loudly, frowning so deeply it was almost audible. "And I want it known that I did _not_ agree to coming here, so you can all tell them when they catch us."

A chorus of sighs broke out.

"These are _Ministry _people, not just anyone," said Peter, unperturbed. "We could really get into trouble for this one."

James bit his lip, as either a gesture of thoughtfulness or to keep from laughing -- it was hard to tell. "Think of it this way," he said, "It's not just a prank, it's...it's our _moral obligation_."

"It's our moral obligation to attack Ministry of Magic workers?" asked Sirius, smiling faintly in the darkness.

"No, of course not, I wasn't finished. We aren't attacking them, Sirius, we're making a statement against that last decree. Werewolves can't play Quidditch professionally, indeed!"

"I don't even play Quidditch," said Remus, shifting uncomfortably. "Let's just leave, I hold no grudges with them. I'm sure they have their reasons."

There was little truth to his last statement, but no one was paying it much attention anyway.

"What I don't understand," said Sirius amiably, "is why we don't just get out there and _do it_. What good is sitting in a closet and waiting?"

James smiled beatifically. "Patience is subtlety. And subtlety, my friend, is brilliance."

Everyone in the broom cupboard groaned.

-----

Diana McKinnon was in a high temper by the time Regulus arrived in the Great Hall.

"Lovely of you to turn up, Black," she said frostily, waving her wand to rearrange a stack of charts on the table. "I had to do all of the set up myself. Bourdelet told me specifically that she would be here to help, but who can trust a word that comes out of her mouth..."

Regulus looked down at the display table, which was, to his amusement, bright mauve. "Anything you need?" he asked, knowing well that Control-Freak McKinnon would rather eat dragon dung than let him put a finger on her work.

"Don't even think about it," said McKinnon, looking venomous.

"Then what am I supposed to be doing here?"

McKinnon blew out her breath as she straightened her tie. "Let me handle the talking, all right? All you need to do is answer questions and show them the charts. I'll be going over basic Numerology and Thaumaturgy."

"Right," said Regulus, seating himself several feet back from the table. McKinnon had no objection to this.

Around them, a plethora of tables had been set up. The main attraction was a luminescent revolving projection of the solar system, orbiting in the centre of the room, surrounded by a delighted group of pointing second years.

Beyond the projection, tables were scattered to the far end of the room. Many of the students had taken the opportunity to abandon the strict Hogwarts dress code, and the Hall was a swirl of colour and light as people swarmed between the rows, chattering loudly.

Regulus sat back in his chair and stretched out his legs. McKinnon was ignoring him and sending an overly harsh glare at a group of first years poking around at the Arithmancy equipment.

The worst part of the evening, so far, was the waiting. Far across the hall, Regulus caught a fleeting glimpse of a group of adults, lavishly robed -- no doubt the Ministry workers. He decided against pointing them out to McKinnon, who was already so nervous she couldn't rest more than five minutes without standing up to obsessively straighten the table.

When McKinnon made to get up again, Regulus dragged her back down in her seat.

"The Arithmancy charts aren't _moving_, McKinnon."

"Not that," said McKinnon, slapping away his hand, "They're coming over here..."

She stood nervously, smoothing her skirt. Regulus followed her, eyeing the group of curious Ministry officials as they meandered toward the Arithmancy display.

McKinnon stopped pinching her lips together and sent them a winning smile. "Hello," she said, a bit too forcefully. She leaned ridiculously forward to shake the hand of the foremost in the group, a silver-haired man with narrow spectacles and a supercilious demeanour. He gave them a calculating look; it was odd, but Regulus thought he seemed somehow familiar.

"Ahem," she said, her voice fluttering nervously. "Thaumagurty, the study of the production of magic in living beings, is based on a series of mathematical equations..."

Regulus tuned out the sound of her voice as he carefully studied the group before him. There was a thin-faced woman clutching a clipboard, standing next to an inattentive, balding man, whose eyes were wandering critically over the mauve tablecloth. Behind them, several other well-dressed wizards and witches pressed closer to the table for a better view, their polite, inquisitive faces trained on McKinnon. Front and centre in the group was the silver-haired man, whose head nodded severely in poorly conveyed encouragement. McKinnon's overly practiced speech continued to tumble out breathlessly as she fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth.

So absorbed was Regulus in the scene before him that he completely missed the cue McKinnon had arranged for him, which was only to hold up her pre-made chart and point at each equation as she spoke. Indignant and embarrassed, McKinnon delivered an inconspicuous kick to his shin, and he scrambled to find the Wand Thaumatic Multiplier equation and point it out with a very fixed smile.

The woman with the clipboard set it down on the edge of the table while she picked up another chart detailing the magical-to-mathematical equivalents of various wand cores, smiling faintly. McKinnon looked very pleased with this.

"Thus, a truly powerful wand is composed of well-balanced elements," McKinnon was finishing, not bothering to disguise what was by now an outright smirk.

The woman holding the chart favoured her with an indulgent smile. "Arithmancy was always my favourite subject when I was in school," she said, replacing the chart and looking rather wistful.

"Yes," said McKinnon, the brightness of her eyes making her look absolutely absurd, "Isn't it breathtaking?"

-----

Across the hall, Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs had abandoned the safety of their closet and were milling about the Gobstone Players' table, much to the indignation of the students running it.

"Set those down -- you could ruin them!" a red-faced Christie Thompson shouted at Sirius, who was attempting to juggle three of the largest gobstones without much success.

Peter narrowly avoided being hit in the head by a flying gobstone and ducked over to where James was standing. Completely oblivious to the rest of the world, he peered at the Arithmancy display across a large expanse of tables and noisy students.

"Where's the best angle?" asked James, more to himself than to any of his friends. Peter shrugged indifferently but allowed himself to be pulled by the wrist several more table-lengths toward the centre of the hall, leaving Remus to disentangle Sirius from the gobstones.

"This is it," said James, almost giddy with the joy of the task at hand. He crouched beside the nearest table, eyes trained down the aisle.

"What's that?" said Sirius, jogging up behind them with Remus in tow.

"Right here."

From where they were standing, they could see directly down the aisle to the Arithmancy table, where the Ministry workers were poised. A girl, vaguely recognisable as Diana McKinnon, was chattering non-stop, a nervous smile plastered on her face. Beside her was Regulus Black, wearing the look of perpetual boredom that James had become quite acquainted with, even though they didn't know each other well.

"Perfect," he breathed, pulling out his wand.

Remus rolled his eyes, but looked genuinely agitated. "If I knew why you insisted I accompany you in this madcap scheme..."

"Hurry," urged Peter, "You're going to miss your chance!"

"Right," said James decisively, nodding. "Remus, Peter, you'll watch them from the other side? In case they move too far out of the way."

Remus gave a lengthy sigh but made no effort to oppose the decision; Peter grinned eagerly and tugged on his friend's arm. "Come on, Remus--"

"See you in the common room," called Sirius at their retreating backs. He smirked, kneeling down beside James, who was apparently preparing for some kind of spellwork.

James' wand was pointed directly at the stone floor. Both boys watched it with a surprising intensity, and James cleared his throat for the incantation.

"Might I ask what you're doing, Potter?" interrupted a very exasperated voice from behind them.

They turned, bringing the usually pleasant face of Lily Evans into view. The red-haired girl was standing, hands on hips, the sceptical cocking of her eyebrows enough to make her look distinctly frightening.

"Careful, Evans, your face might get stuck that way," said Sirius, grinning cheekily up at her. She did not look at all amused.

"I asked a question," she said pointedly, turning her steely green gaze back to James' face.

"Ah, but the answer has nothing to do with you, so you've no reason to loiter," he said, very nicely in his own estimation.

Evans looked incredulous. "If you're doing something you shouldn't, then of course the answer concerns me. You promised that you'd at least pretend to be respectable after you became Head Boy--"

"Funny, I thought being respectable meant standing up for things that you believe in."

"Not if you're doing something unruly."

"Tell me, then," suggested James, "Exactly what are we doing wrong?"

At that moment, though, it became very obvious to both of them.

Faintly at first, and then in growing speed and size, a thin trail of ice formed over the stone where Sirius was crouching. It crackled and sparkled as it spread farther down, widening and stretching to the size of a sidewalk, larger, coating the path with a thin sheet of ice.

Sirius stood up, wand in hand, smiling down as his handiwork bled quickly down the aisle.

Evans fought for words. "You're -- you're freezing the--"

"The floor? The Ministry workers? It'll all be the same in a minute or so," said Sirius, laughing.

"Speaking of, we ought to get out of here," said James, his eyes trained on the quickly spreading ice. It looked thicker by the second, gleaming white sprouting from the stones at an alarming pace.

Lily Evans' wand was pointed directly at his nose before he could take so much as a single step. "You know the counterspell! Use it!"

"No," said James evenly. Sirius' smirk widened a fraction.

"Don't make me hex you," spat Evans, her outstretched wand trembling slightly.

"_Expelliarmus!_"

Evans had already thrown herself forward at James, knocking them both to the floor with an impressive force. Sirius' disarming spell vanished harmlessly in the Astronomy display as Hogwarts' Head Boy and Girl landed in an uncomfortable heap on the floor, scrambling apart with much kicking and swatting at each other.

"Get off of me!" said James loudly, painfully aware that people were beginning to stare. Sirius sprang off in the direction that Remus and Peter had disappeared, darting through a crowd of startled third years to get away. James leapt to his feet to follow, resolving to let the spell alone to finish its job, when a well-placed tripping jinx from Evans laid him sprawled out on the floor once more.

Evans stumbled to her feet, wand at the ready and trained at James' chest. She was looking livid, completely oblivious that something of an audience had formed around the two of them.

"Look around you," shouted James, panting where he lay on the floor. "People are watching you now. Is this the way a respectable Head Girl behaves, then?"

Evans' green eyes widened in surprise; accordingly, she finally turned a fraction of her attention to the people standing around them.

It was enough. Whipping up his wand, James yelled, "_Confundo!_", scrambling upright in the same instant and making a mad dash for the exit.

His Confundus Spell hit Evans square in the face; a look of utter confusion crossed it as she toppled backwards. A split second later she realised she'd been tricked; still reeling with the weight of the spell, she levelled her wand at James' retreating form with the first hex that came to mind:

"_Rictusempra!_"

Amid the chatter of the busy Great Hall and the murmur of her astounded audience, no one noticed when the spell shot wildly off its mark, whizzing down the still spreading pathway of ice.

-----

Only moments before, Diana McKinnon had mad an irksome discovery at the Arithmancy table.

"She's left her clipboard," McKinnon wailed, brandishing the thing at Regulus. "That woman who was looking at the Arithmancy charts..."

"So go and give it back to her, then," said Regulus, who, after spending an entire evening by her side, was tiring of her company more than ever.

"You give it back to her," snapped McKinnon, suddenly venomous. "I didn't see you doing anything helpful when that horrible man in front was asking questions--"

"You told me not to answer questions!"

"It's not my fault you can't be trusted with important jobs," said McKinnon nasally. "Go give that woman her clipboard. And hurry! I think they're about to leave."

Regulus took the clipboard and ran off in the direction the Ministry people had taken, thinking bitterly that this nightmare was what he deserved for agreeing to this silly extra curricular project. He was trying to be helpful, not made into Diana McKinnon's slave!

Well. He wasn't actually trying too hard.

Regulus was just thinking how nice it would feel to tell McKinnon where exactly she should stuff her Arithmancy charts when abruptly, the floor gave way beneath him.

With a splitting _crack! _his head hit the ground, jarring a sharp wave of pain through his skull. In a moment of confusion he felt himself skidding along the floor -- was it really so cold? -- badly scraping his elbows as he tumbled forward.

Without warning, he slammed into something heavy.

He ducked his head by instinct when it came crashing down, a muffled exclamation and an ungainly tangle of limbs. Scrambling away from it, Regulus clenched his eyes tightly shut as he made several unsuccessful attempts to get up.

Finally, he opened his eyes. Slowly.

The first thing he saw was the wide-eyed expressions on the faces of the people around him, accompanied by the hiss of startled whispers. His forearms were stinging and badly scraped; one look down at them shocked him so badly he nearly fainted. He was sitting on a massive sheet of ice.

_What in the world?_

Ice, though, immediately became the least of his troubles. Another look at his surroundings brought something one million-and-a-half times worse into sharp focus.

He had hit someone else. One of the Ministry men.

The silver-haired man haughtily straightened his spectacles, looking past them at Regulus with such affronted surprise that Regulus had to swallow several times, painfully aware of the choking lump that had formed in his throat.

Abruptly, something else hit him. A tingling sensation in his spine. It was warm, though, compared with the ice beneath him -- a spell?

There was no time to wonder at it. The man was getting to his feet and brushing off his robes, looking aghast. He turned back toward Regulus to glare down --

At which Regulus involuntarily broke out into a fit of giggles.

He had no idea where they came from, welling up inside his mouth with such force that there was nothing he could have done to hold them back. His shoulders hitched with what should have been a strangled sob, and here he was, _giggling!_

The murmur of voices exploded, as though some charm had magically turned the volume up far too high. Above the noise, the scandalised mutter of the Ministry workers reached Regulus' ears.

"What is your name?" commanded the silver-haired wizard, who suddenly seemed a thousand times taller, now standing at his full height.

"R--Regulus Black, sir."

He was met with a highly disapproving glare. "Is this the state of things at Hogwarts?" asked the man of his companions. "I'll be speaking with Dumbledore about this at once."

The pit of Regulus' stomach gave a violent lurch at the expression on the faces of the retreating wizards. His mind commanded him to calm down but his body wasn't listening -- a million thoughts were running through his head in such quick succession that he could hardly keep up.

He was sitting on the middle of the floor and his face was burning, people were staring at him and that man had just asked his name and_ what was he going to do?_

Nothing better came to mind, so he leapt to his feet and took off running, bursting through the crowd without looking back.

-----

He didn't stop running until he had reached the seventh-floor statue of the Brethren of Rhyfeddon.

It was odd that his feet had taken him there without a second thought. Perhaps because it was the one place in the school to which he felt some vague form of loyalty, which was sadly lacking within his own house. It was the Statue that he went to, in that poorly lit seventh floor corridor, not his dormitory, not his common room.

Gasping for breath, he hoisted himself behind the statue and crawled deep into the alcove, ignoring the dust and grime that stuck to his sweaty palms and robes. His hands found the far wall and he turned to press his back against it, resting his head against the rough stone and trying to calm the frantic racing of his pulse.

Behind the sculpture, the air was cool and dark. Dim torchlight filtered past the four huge figures, casting pale lengths of light amid the shadows. His hand struck out experimentally -- no, there was no note at all, not even the one he had left. Gale must have already come by to pick it up.

Out loud, he gave an improbable spurt of laughter. What was he doing, thinking of Gale when here he was, trapped in his own failure?

Wasn't it lovely. He was likely going to be skinned alive for attacking a Ministry of Magic worker, failing Transfiguration, and, worse beyond measure, putting yet another black mark on the family name. Mother would be furious; Father would stay out of it completely, retreating to the relative quiet of the upstairs study to leave his son to his mother's wrath.

There would be no end of _that_.

He would be lucky to _ever _regain what he'd lost in the eyes of his family, his house, and the rest of the school -- one quickly tarnishing reputation that would likely haunt him for what he could only imagine was the rest of his existence. He had _laughed_ in that man's face, right after running straight into him and knocking him to the floor.

There was only one thing that could have caused such an incongruent spurt of laughter, something else that wasn't his fault. The warm, tingling sensation that had hit him a split second before -- it must have been a spell. He'd felt it before, usually from the wand of his brother or cousins. _Rictusempra_, the tickling charm, bane of the first year dormitories and children's wand practises.

Who had performed it? Was someone trying to make life difficult for him, or did it just seem to work out that way?

Answers to those questions didn't seem to be in any hurry to arrive, so he resigned himself to sitting back in his hidden alcove and wishing that he could find a way to redo history.

Possible, but not bloody likely.

That was exactly where he was when the sound of approaching footsteps shook him abruptly to the present.

He sat bolt upright, leaning forward to peer around Callaghan. No luck; nothing could be seen in the darkness beyond the statue. Pressing himself against the wall, he held his breath...three seconds, four, the footsteps continued.

Someone was walking _directly to_ the statue.

As far as Regulus knew, there were only two people in the world that would have reason to care about the grimy old sculpture, and he was one of them.

The other was Gale.

There was a slight rustling out in the hall. Someone was digging in a book bag, perhaps. Then came the muffled sound of the bag being tossed unceremoniously to the floor, and the near soundless pant as the person hoisted themselves up and onto the plinth...

...And the dark alcove became darker as the last slivers of light were blocked by that someone's silhouette.

The moment was lost in a rush of movement. Regulus' hands darted forward and caught the stranger's wrists, without waiting to see if it was possible to tell its identity -- Gale let out a cry of surprise and wriggled backwards, struggling against him--

In one triumphant movement, Regulus hauled them both backwards, farther into the alcove. Gale's frightened breathing rang ragged in the silence.

"_Let go of me!_"

Regulus did, more out of surprise than any effort to obey. He recognised that voice.

In yet another moment of absolute shock that night, Regulus found himself staring, by the dim hallway torchlight, into the flushed and angry face of Madeleine Bourdelet.

--CH 4--

Arithmancy terms and ideas in McKinnon's speech came from MsoNormalI'm not sure if it's made up specifically for that site (which no longer seems to be active), but I've never seen any other in-depth Arithmancy notes online.

I don't know if Lily and James would still be squabbling with each other in their seventh year, but I don't really care either.

Thanks to **puck nc** for beta reading and to **LaquetaL** for Brit-picking. And thank you for reading! Reviews are always appreciated; I'm a desperate writer.


	5. Crimes of Past and Present

**Chapter Five -- Crimes of Past and Present**

_**Monday, October 31, 1977**_

For her part, Madeleine Bourdelet, previously entitled Gale, was doing a very bad job of making the situation the least bit more understandable.

All that she had done in the several seconds since he had discovered her was give him the most unreadable expressions while he managed to stammer, "_You_ were the one who was writing to me? You're _Gale_?"

Any fear or surprise that he would have expected to see from her was gone in an instant, replaced by a remarkably disgusted look and a haughty indignation.

"Terribly sorry to disappoint," she said acidly, and spun to crawl back out of the alcove. The folded parchment in her hand dropped and skipped into the shadows.

It was impossibly unfair that everything that he should have liked to say -- all the cutting comments and sarcasm that might have startled her into stopping -- had already fled his head and left him gibbering with all the eloquence of a nervous first year. Any real words at all seemed favourable at the moment, and he finally managed to get out the first thing that came to mind, which was, "What are you _talking _about?"

Unsurprisingly, Bourdelet didn't even bother to stop. Hopping down from the plinth, she stooped to collect her bag, shouldered it in one fluid movement, and gritted out between her teeth, "It's obvious you were expecting someone else. Someone better, perhaps?"

There was really no point to denying it; he _had_ been expecting someone better. That, however, did nothing to staunch the flow of a million questions running through his head, and there seemed nothing better to do than follow her as she started off down the corridor at a ridiculous pace.

"Where are you going?"

"Does it matter?"

"No." The word came automatically.

Bourdelet whirled so swiftly that she almost ran straight into his chest. "Then why are you following me?"

He attempted to swallow the lump forming in his throat and failed miserably. There was no easy way to phrase it: he didn't really want her to walk away, at least not without giving him the answers he felt he deserved. The abruptness of their encounter left him feeling as though he were still waiting for something else to happen.

Hastily, he said, "I want to know what's going on."

This elicited a smile. A fleeting smile, so distorted that it was hardly recognisable. "We're at Hogwarts. The Ministry and the school governors are in a rift. You-Know-Who has taken over the country." She clicked her tongue wryly. "You're going to have to learn to be more specific if you ever want straight answers from anybody."

This was simply too much -- the _nerve_ of her! His anger flared up momentarily, and he tried his best to keep the same condescension in his voice that Bellatrix employed so often. It was harder than he expected.

"I only want them from you at the moment, so I'll try to make it easy," Regulus said. "Why did you contact me? And if I was never supposed to find out who you were, then why did you write to me?"

"Well," she said, with an almost childish, surly reluctance, "You weren't supposed to find out _yet_."

"Are you going to answer the question or not?"

"Certainly not _here!_"

"Then _where_?"

She bit her lip, eyes planted firmly on the floor.

"Oh, come on, Bourdelet," he said, impatiently glancing down the hallway in either direction. On a surge of inspiration, he grabbed her elbow in a firm grip and dragged her to the nearest doorway: the Ancient Runes classroom. No light came from beneath the door, so there were no qualms in pushing it open and shoving her unceremoniously inside.

The torches sprang to life by magic, illuminating in dull yellow the empty rows of desks and her dismayed face. She was, evidently, still determined to squirm her way out of this. "Someone could walk in on us."

"Not likely," he pointed out. Steering her toward the far side of the classroom, Regulus pushed her with rather unnecessary force onto the nearest desktop, seating himself directly across from her.

"Now," he said, suddenly businesslike. "Start at the beginning. You've been claiming to have something to say to me for weeks, haven't you? This is your chance to say it. There won't be another, so get on with it."

With a face that was probably the result of a suppressed glare, Bourdelet folded her arms and took a deep breath. Her eyes found a nice spot on the ground to stare at, which was undoubtedly easier to look at than Regulus.

"It's just like I said in the notes. Things are happening--"

"What things?"

"Things concerning the future."

"Oh, are you taking Divinations?" he asked sardonically.

"The past has a way of repeating itself," she said sharply. "I'm counting on it to, anyway. I wrote to you because...I need your help."

"With...?"

Another deep breath. Obviously, she was struggling for the right words. "You...know...that Bellatrix and I used to be friends."

He did remember that, in a vague recollection of his younger years at Hogwarts. A Christmas party she'd attended with Bella at Grimmauld Place came to mind, but he'd hardly known or paid any attention to her then.

"Best friends," he conceded, staring at her forehead intently. "What did you do to her?"

Her jaw was set. Of course she'd not tell him as many answers as he wanted from her. "I made a mistake, that's all. She thinks I betrayed her just because I did something she didn't like."

"And now you want to change that?"

Here she faltered, the nervousness a thousand times more obvious. Her shell was cracking. Perhaps if he pushed...?

"Be frank," he suggested, on an impulse, "you seem to be good at that. And, incidentally, I doubt that there's anything you could say to convince me that you're any madder than I think you are now, so you might as well say it."

The desk nearly overturned as she leapt to her feet, nostrils flared, visibly collecting herself. For a moment he quite forgot why he had reasoned it would be a good idea to upset her, but these thoughts were quickly abandoned as she had already begun berating him.

"Here's _frank_ for you," she spat, looking remarkably intimidating for all her short build, "Bellatrix has spent two years destroying my life, largely for her own enjoyment. I want it all back. Do you think that I _like_ being the laughingstock of the seventh year? I want you to help me get it back."

"And how do you expect me to do _that_?"

Hesitation, again. This time it appeared to be out of embarrassment, as though she could hear the words in her mind and found them so foolish that she could barely stand to say them aloud. She said them anyway, with all the dignity she could muster.

"I want you to help me convince Bella not to hate me any longer."

Regulus snorted derisively. How exceptionally unsurprising. "So that you can stab her in the back again?"

"So that I can make the right choice the second time around!" There was an odd moment, in which Bourdelet's eyes found his face and watched him with such intensity that it was unsettling, especially from someone like Bourdelet. In a somewhat softer voice she added, "Please, Regulus. I need this chance."

He avoided her gaze; it felt like ice. Ice, there was another thing he was refusing to think about. He changed tack. "What do I get out of this? You can't very well expect me to help you out of the goodness of my heart."

To her credit, she managed to keep from rolling her eyes. "What is it that you want?"

That was always the question, wasn't it? With it came an overwhelming assortment of images, half-thought ideas. What was it that he wanted? The answer was easy, in abstractions. Dignity, praise -- power, _maybe_. He wanted attention, someone who cared...More specific were other wishes: he wanted to pass Transfiguration, to find out who had hexed him almost an hour ago at the Founder's Day Festival. Though he'd never mention it, there was also the vacant wish that he'd never discovered Gale's identity. It was ridiculous, he thought; the answer he'd so badly craved turned out to be the next moment's nightmare.

"Probably nothing that you could give me," he replied finally, noting sardonically that she didn't know much about salvaging reputations.

"Try me," said Bourdelet steadily.

Quite honestly, he had no desire to try her. He very much wanted to return to his common room, forget that any of this night had happened, and ignore Bourdelet for the rest of eternity. On the other hand, dangling an impossible price in front of her face was exactly what she deserved -- and the perfect justification for refusing her help.

Mentally, he recalled the recent past. He'd felt utterly rotten, certainly, but what could make it better?

_What did he want?_

Then, suddenly he knew. It was as though his mouth was speaking without the direction of his brain.

"There's a fourth year girl in Ravenclaw called Leigh Harrington. D'you know her?"

"Yes," said Bourdelet. There was almost a defiant edge in the set of her chin. "The girl you were with in the Library two weeks ago."

Of course she'd been watching him, how foolish of him to think otherwise. How long had they been in contact? Just like her to be spying on him. But there was no time to think on it as Bourdelet smiled craftily. "She's a friend of my sister's. Claire Bourdelet?"

Ah, Claire. He'd seen Claire before. Popular, talkative, and vaguely pretty. Obviously family resemblance was unaccounted for, but as a fellow fourth-year Ravenclaw, of course Claire would know Leigh Harrington.

"Well--" started Regulus.

"I knew it!" declared Bourdelet, as close to excited as Regulus ever expected to see her, the grim smile putting some perverse light in her eyes. "You want Leigh Harrington's attention, and I can get it for you."

"Wait a minute!" said Regulus. "How do you think you can guarantee that kind of thing?"

"She's a fourteen-year-old girl. I know what to say to her." A brief pause; Bourdelet bit her lip. "And you know what to say to Bellatrix, for that matter."

She was right. It was a chance for a chance, one person for another. There was no real betrayal in helping someone make Bella's _friendship_, was there? Bourdelet wouldn't hurt her, would she? No, something told him that she wouldn't. Not on purpose, anyway. It was obvious from Bourdelet's manner that whatever had ruined their friendship before -- that undiscussed event -- it _had_ been accidental.

But it was still a strange secret. Regulus felt close to Bellatrix, and even then she'd never been exactly free with personal information. But just because Bella and Gale -- no, _Bourdelet _-- shared a secret, it didn't mean that the secret impeded on both of their relationships to him. With Bella, her past didn't matter. It wasn't relevant.

Here, now, with Bourdelet, this was something different entirely. She _needed_ something from him. This wasn't friendship being offered, it was strictly a business arrangement. It required trust of a different kind, trust that could never be given without the whole truth. Not a blind trust.

No matter how he looked at it, Regulus was still sitting on a desk in the Ancient Runes classroom feeling utterly lost in the midst of the night's events. Drawing in a deep breath, he collected himself for a decision. The words were deliberate, and slow. "Tell me why Bellatrix doesn't like you, and I'll make her like you again."

Bourdelet looked as though she meant to bore a hole in his skull with her eyes. "You can't ask that of me."

"You're in no position to refuse."

Several moments passed in which nothing happened. Bourdelet was sitting motionless, but her eyes drifted slowly back to the floor, staring again with that startling intensity. They seemed clouded.

"No," she said faintly.

Regulus stood and cleared his throat. _Be decisive. Don't look back._

"Then don't bother me again," he said, and turned and left the classroom.

-----

"_Lumos._"

At the sound, the entire hallway flooded with light. Narcissa stood with her wand outstretched, the unearthly white light illuminating her features in sharp contrast to the shadows.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

Regulus was standing in the entrance to the common room, where he'd been while she investigated the hallway. The search had yielded nothing to fear, but that did not account for his qualms about standing in the open, lighting half the dungeons.

"Put down the wand," hissed Regulus, his hands fumbling in his pockets for his own wand. There was no sense in running amok through the school hallways unarmed, especially at this time of night. The clock had chimed one not long ago, which -- to Narcissa -- meant the start of their planned nighttime excursion.

"Are you ready to go?" Narcissa repeated, having reluctantly dimmed the wandlight by magic. Now the only things visible were a portion of the wall, the hand holding her wand, and her impatient face.

_Go._ Short for, _go and steal potion ingredients_. How irked he'd been to return to the common room to find Narcissa waiting for him, sure that he would accompany her. He, on the other hand, had completely forgotten about the Amphisbaena venom. The venom that Narcissa had promised to steal tonight.

Worse still than the planned theft was that rumours regarding that blasted Festival had _already _begun to circulate. Narcissa had dragged him off immediately for a profuse berating, which largely consisted of reprimands for being unobservant. Yes, he was _sorry_ that he hadn't been watching the ground when he walked -- would she be equally peeved if he'd been watching for spectacular great sheets of ice on the floor and then been hit in the head with something else?

All through it, though, he never mentioned to her his encounter with Bourdelet. He meant to, really -- he was going to tell Narcissa as soon as he got back, to get it out of his system. Narcissa would have told him to be practical about it, that he shouldn't have exchanged letters in the first place, and that it would have been better to tell Madeleine Bourdelet right off where exactly to shove her ideas about winning Bellatrix's approval. Narcissa always knew how to handle these things.

But he didn't tell Narcissa about it. No one knew besides him, and Bourdelet -- and Bourdelet wasn't likely to go about spouting the story of their grand adventure, either. Why did it feel like telling Narcissa would ruin the secret?

Narcissa, for her part, looked exceptionally uninterested in any of his secrets. Presently, she was glancing impatiently from him to some spot up the corridor, her face wearing a clear expression of agitation. "Come on," she said, "if we stay here for long we're bound to catch someone's attention."

She had a point. Sighing, Regulus banished thoughts of the drama he'd already been through that evening, and steeled himself for the drama that was certainly to come.

Narcissa beckoned to him -- rather ominously, he thought -- and started off down the corridor, lifting the hem of her robes with one hand so that they would not swish against the stone.

He would have sighed, loudly, but it did not seem wise to make unsolicited noises at this time of night, especially when one took into consideration that he and Narcissa were out of bounds. Instead, Regulus followed his cousin's wandlight down the dim hallway, wishing very much that he was back in his dormitory. It was only fair, in his opinion; he'd suffered through enough already this night.

The actual stealing didn't faze him. It was only the prospect of being caught that tied an impossibly heavy knot in his stomach. Well, there was certainly nothing to be done about it now.

Narcissa, evidently, had no fears about traipsing around Hogwarts at all times of day and night. She led the way, Regulus trailing rather closely after her on the basis that if they were caught, so be it, but it was a much better deal to be near the light than lurking in the shadows -- where who-knows-what horrors could be lurking beside him.

Luckily, it took them no time at all to reach the Potions classroom and Professor Vance's office, both located in the dungeons. They reached the classroom door after a short, tortuous walk, dimming the light further as Narcissa pointed her wand at the glinting keyhole.

"Seven Sickles _Alohomora_ isn't going to work," whispered Regulus sarcastically.

Narcissa ignored him. Instead of trying _Alohomora_ or any other spell, she procured a heavy, gold-coloured key from the pocket of her robe, holding it in front of the lock as though in hesitation. Suddenly the gold brightened, glowed hot as it shrank, and magically reformed to the appropriate size and shape.

Inserted into the lock, the key opened the latch soundlessly.

"Where did you get that?"

Narcissa's mouth twisted in a smirk as she wiggled the key out. Creakily, the door swung inward, revealing the gaping hole of the entranceway.

"From Bellatrix," said Narcissa, shifting the wand to light up the doorway. "You'd best not mention it to her, thought. I nicked it from her trunk at the beginning of summer and she's been hunting madly for it ever since."

"Not a word," promised Regulus, following her into the dark classroom. The torches lit automatically, flooding the room and dazzling their eyes. Regulus snapped the door shut behind them to keep in the light.

Walking into the potions classroom was like entering a world separate from the twisting dungeon corridors behind them. It looked eerily bright when empty, but Regulus had no time to wonder at it as Narcissa was already on the other side of the classroom, trying the magically changing key in the second door.

"We haven't got much time," she said, as she hastily jiggled the doorknob. "The last thing we need is an untimely interruption from Peeves -- or worse, Filch."

Regulus hurriedly joined her in the second room -- Vance's office. It was a very plain room, dully lit by torches, every paper and quill exactly where it was meant to be. Along the back wall was another door, and sitting just in front of them was a plain wooden cupboard, undoubtedly where Vance kept her potion ingredients. Wasting no time at all, Narcissa crouched next to it and jammed the key into the lock. It sparked, crackled, and refused to budge, no matter how she twisted it.

Narcissa grimaced. "It's not working!" she cried, rather obviously Regulus thought, but now did not seem like the time to mention it.

"Why not?" he said instead.

She twisted the key feverishly; it didn't move. "The key removes basic spells, but Vance must have put something stronger on this."

With good reason. There were _certain _fifth-year students that were too ambitious to be trusted with Amphisbaena venom. Fortunately for him, he was clever enough to pass the responsibility of getting it on to someone else; unfortunately for them, Regulus and Narcissa were the ones who were kneeling before the supply cupboard at one in the morning with no idea how to go about getting inside.

At least, Regulus had no idea how to go about getting inside.

"Right," he said levelly, as Narcissa whipped the key out of the lock with more force than strictly necessary, "How do you go about removing a ward like this?"

"Some kind of counterspell," said Narcissa. Suddenly, she pounded her fist against the wood -- a motion that yielded nothing, but probably felt good in her frustration. "Oh -- We don't have time for this! Not with Filch and that filthy cat of his -- Regulus, do you _know_ any counterspells?"

"Not for anything this weighty," he admitted. He bit his lip. "I do have one idea."

"What's that?" said Narcissa slowly, eyeing him.

He drew in a deep breath. "We could...blast a hole in the side."

It had exactly the effect he'd been hoping it _wouldn't._

"Regulus!" stammered Narcissa, looking incredulous, "What d'you mean, blast a hole in the side? Not only would Vance _know _someone was here, she'd be absolutely rabid for weeks -- and really, blasting up her furniture--"

"_Think_ about it," said Regulus, cutting her off. "What if the ward is only on the lock? Hoping, of course, that we don't blow it to bits, we can just as easily get the venom without using the door. So what if it doesn't work? We're no worse off than we are now."

Narcissa stared, with her mouth open -- the least composed Regulus had ever seen her in his life. He took this as an opening to continue.

"Even if we opened the lock, Vance is too meticulous not to notice if the venom was missing," he said, swallowing. It was a bit unsettling to have her gaping at him that way.

Finally, Narcissa blinked and looked as though she were digesting the information. "You're mad," she told him seriously, and picked up her wand.

"Does this mean we're doing it?"

"_I'm_ doing it. Stand back."

Smirking, Regulus did as he was instructed. Narcissa climbed to her feet as well and levelled her wand at the cupboard's side panel.

"This is going to be loud," she said, frozen in place. "Be ready to run for the Room of Requirement as soon as we have the venom."

"Wait," said Regulus abruptly, though she wasn't yet moving. "If it doesn't work...?"

She grimaced. "We'll deal with that when it happens."

"As long as we're being optimistic about it," said Regulus.

Narcissa ignored him. Calmly, she aimed her wand, visibly collecting herself. Then, with a rather elaborate swish-and-flick she cried, "_Reducto_!"

A split second later it was already obvious that it was working. The silver jet of her spell hit the panel in a shattering bolt, blowing away half of one side of the cupboard in an explosion of splinters and the sound of tinkling glass. A cloud of dust billowed upwards and Narcissa went into an immediate coughing fit, throwing one arm up to shield her face.

"Are you all right?" asked Regulus, rushing forward again.

Narcissa dropped to her knees before it, blinking profusely through streaming eyes, and immediately began sifting through the shards of wood. "The _venom,_" she reminded him hoarsely, tossing aside a bundle of herbs and trying to get at the back of the cupboard.

Hastily, he helped her panicked hands clear away the remains of the cupboard's panel, reduced to little more than splinters by the force of the spell.

"Oh, there are a _million_ phials back here," wailed Narcissa, attempting to clear away slivers of a shattered beaker and cutting her hand in the process. "Ouch! Get your wand, Regulus, I need some light!"

He scrambled to comply, whipping his wand from his pocket again and aiming it into the cupboard over her shoulder. A quickly muttered _Lumos_ dazzled their eyes with a blinding flash of light, but Narcissa didn't seem to mind as she frantically dug through several racks of phials. Grabbing hold of one, she pulled it out and thrust it at Regulus' stomach with a command to look for the venom.

The phials were poorly labelled, but Vance was shrewd -- trust her to have the contents memorised, anyway.

"What does it look like?" Regulus asked at Narcissa's back.

"It's colourless -- it should _say _on the stopper."

Very helpful. They were _all _filled with transparent liquid, but Narcissa was too busy searching herself to be bothered with explaining.

The next few minutes passed in the flurry of their search. Regulus managed to narrow his rack down to three phials that looked as though their illegibly scrawled labels might have started with an "A". Narcissa had apparently exhausted the supply of clear phials with no luck whatsoever, and had taken to double-checking one last time.

"I can't tell which it is," said Regulus for the millionth time, comparing them in good lighting. "What if they're all wrong?"

"It _has_ to be here. There aren't any more!" snapped Narcissa, spinning toward him. With one look at the three phials she deduced, "It's not _that_ one, that's green tinted," knocking down the list of suspects to two. They were running out of time.

"We could just take them both," said Regulus, when Narcissa plucked both phials from his hand and examined them closely. She was in the midst of making non-committal shoulder movements when something happened.

There was a noise in the other room.

The Potions classroom -- the door, being opened, very slowly. It was still an utterly recognisable sound, the click of the latch and the long slow squeal of the hinges.

Narcissa's eyes went wide.

There was no time to think; they were both on their feet in a split second. Narcissa shoved both phials into her robe pockets before grabbing Regulus' arm and yanking him toward the back of the office. There was no place to hide in the sparsely furnished room -- but Narcissa didn't mean to hide, Regulus realised a split second later.

The second door, at the back of the classroom. Where did it lead -- to the hallway, or merely into a closet? The sound of approaching footsteps came slowly, methodically, as though the owner of the feet were trying to be as ominous about the business as possible. Abandoning all caution, Narcissa leapt for the handle, whipped the door open, and pulled Regulus through after her.

It was completely dark. The first solid object he felt was a brick wall, with his head -- not a comforting experience, but there was no time to clear his vision before Narcissa was dragging him to his feet again, stumbling down the hallway together in what was certainly _not _the best way to avoid being noticed.

They were in a hallway, that was one answer, but where they had come out, Regulus didn't know. It must have been adrenaline that propelled them through the darkened corridors, their footsteps a loud staccato on the stone. Narcissa refused to relinquish her grip on his arm as they ran wildly through the dungeon passageway, up a staircase, around several corners so sharply that he nearly slipped -- until they came to rest, _finally_, in some unremarkable doorway, their shoulders hitching with every breath.

For several moments neither of them spoke, trying as they were to breathe properly again. Narcissa was not satisfied with their hiding spot; she quickly set off to find a better one, _walking_ this time, tugging Regulus after her by the sleeve of his robes.

"D'you think we're safe?" whispered Narcissa when they had come to rest in an empty stairwell, several flights above the dungeons.

"They haven't followed us this far." Hopefully. Better not to mention that possibility. "Was it Filch?"

"I don't know _who _it was. It could have been a Prefect, for all I know."

They stayed where they were sitting for several more minutes, cooling down, until Narcissa got to her feet.

"Come on," she said decisively, "We need to get to the Room of Requirement."

-----

The journey up several more staircases and through the darkened corridors seemed to last a lifetime, but they met no more obstacles. Regulus, having had more than his fair share of sneaking about that night, nearly collapsed through its doors.

"I never thought I'd be so happy to see this room," said Regulus, leaning against the wall for support. Every inch of his body felt as though the energy had been drained from it. What he would give to be back in his dormitory now...

During the course of their walk to the Room of Requirement, Narcissa had fallen into a deep contemplative silence. Now she walked to the centre of the room without comment, her glowing wand held out before her. A wave of it illuminated the candles set up around the cauldron, brightening the room somewhat -- enough to let her see what she was doing.

"How much longer for the potion?" asked Regulus, levering himself off the wall and stumbling toward the table.

She looked as though she hadn't even heard, pulling open the book and brushing her fingers lightly down the page. In the candlelight, everything looked vaguely yellow.

"How much longer?" repeated Regulus.

"Be quiet," said Narcissa absently, fishing through her pockets and extracting her ingredients. Pulled loose was the phial of Phoebus' blood, the two that had been stolen from Vance's office, and the tiny knife Phoebus had used to fill his phial earlier that day.

The decision between the two transparent liquids was made after a long comparison of their respective appearances and smells. Narcissa consulted the book continuously, a phial in each hand, while Regulus watched in silence.

Finally, she said, "It's _this one._"

"How can you tell?" asked Regulus, peering at the colourless liquid intently.

Again, Narcissa didn't answer. She was consulting the book once more, tapping the measuring marks on the outside of the glass phial. "The whole thing," she murmured, "Lucky we didn't need more."

It seemed foolish to try speaking to her like this, so Regulus contented himself with studying the enormous table of potion ingredients. He wasn't abysmal in Potions, but the idea of attempting a creation on this scale was enough to start him with a headache. No wonder Phoebus needed Narcissa to do it.

Narcissa had apparently reached the climax of whatever mental calculations she was making, for she dramatically flourished the venom phial, whipped out the stopper, and dribbled it over the bubbling potion.

The reaction was instantaneous. The moment the venom broke the surface, the entire mixture sizzled and spewed, turning from a pale and dreary orange to a blinding, brilliant white. Bubbles bobbed to the surface and burst violently. The light in the darkened chamber no longer came from the candle stumps planted along the edge of the table, but from the frothing cauldron itself. Narcissa looked strange standing over it, the gleaming white light throwing her face and hands into sharp patterns of dark grey and white.

"Where's Phoebus' blood?" asked Narcissa. Her voice sounded strange, too sudden a break in the silence.

"Here," murmured Regulus, passing her the small red phial.

She took it in both hands, examining it with such delicate attention, consulting the measurement. When she seemed satisfied, Regulus expected her to pour it in -- the last ingredient -- but she stopped short. Purposefully, she set it down on the table. Instead, she picked up the knife.

"What are you--?" started Regulus, but stopped. Narcissa's eyes, brighter than usual, were staring at him with such intensity that he was completely taken aback.

"Regulus," she said calmly, as though she were speaking to a child. She took a deep breath, perhaps to steady herself. "We've made too many mistakes this year, and you know it. I know what's bothering you. Don't deny it," she said, as his face must have looked as shocked as he felt, "You've been completely distracted lately! Even this evening--"

She stopped short.

"What do you think is bothering me?" asked Regulus sharply. How perceptive _was_ she?

Narcissa shrugged; her shoulders looked so thin in the white light. "Sirius left you, Regulus. You've been so..._different_ since."

The weight of what she was saying fell slowly; it was like lead in his stomach. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the probing look Narcissa wore, cast in stark shadows from that phosphorescent light.

"What does all of this mean?" he asked quietly.

Narcissa looked away, fingering the blade of the knife. Ever so carefully, she pressed it against her fingertip; the blade quivered against her skin before slicing cleanly through, gauging a slash in her flesh that was quickly filled with warm, red blood. She grimaced, but caught the spilling drops in the tiny glass container.

"I'm going to make everything right again," she said, without looking at him.

There was nothing he could do to stop her. He wouldn't have, if he could. He watched as she poured a full cup of the sizzling white potion into an empty beaker and added her blood.

It frothed even more, turning and stirring itself until the dark blood turned the entire thing a thick, murky red.

"Phoebus is going to kill you when he sees this," said Regulus. "He's going to murder you. You're stealing his potion--"

"He won't notice," said Narcissa, uncorking the other phial and pouring it over the considerably less full cauldron. Phoebus' blood churned in the mixture...

"...he won't even know that it's gone."

-- CH 2 --

One chapter left until we're a third of the way through. Yay.

Special thanks to **puck nc**, my fabulous beta reader, and to **LaquetaL**, who britpicks and listens to me whine, etc. People who give feedback are also bestowed with eternal and undying love, so look into it. ;)


	6. Juggernaut

**Chapter Six -- Juggernaut**

_Saturday, November 5, 1977_

If there was something to be learned from defeat, it was perspective.

Regulus was beginning to think he was well acquainted with defeat, the only word worth using to describe the debacle the last week had become. If Regulus knew anything about perspective, it was only that he needed a new one.

That was the logic behind the outing, after Bellatrix had begged him to come out with her and Narcissa had scoffed. Being caught between their strong-willed opposition was never a comfortable place, but Regulus' old ally, logic, had not abandoned him _completely_.

Still, one thing was certain from the start: walking through the dark school corridors with Bellatrix and her friends was completely different than any excursion he'd taken there before.

Something clanged loudly in the shadows, and his breath hitched sharply in his throat. Then silence yielded to a mad snicker and Bellatrix stumbled into view, hand whipping up to stifle giggles, eyes glittering, and Regulus' only thought was that if the entire night never progressed past this puerile giddiness it would be a welcome change.

"Self-control, darling, unless you want to send us all to Filch's office instead of Hogsmeade," drawled Rodolphus, hoisting the sputtering lantern higher, dimly breaching the gloom of the corridor ahead.

"What _was_ that noise?"

"That was Bella, tripping over a blood-sucking bugbear."

Someone chuckled. Rodolphus' lamp flickered across something dark and metallic on the floor, and he nudged it with his toe. "Or a lantern, Evan."

"Or a lantern," amended Evan Rosier with a dismissive wave. "Somebody left it here, then. We're not the only ones out tonight."

"What idiot would leave a lantern in the middle of the hallway?" Regulus scoffed.

Rosier glanced up, lips curling slightly. "At the doorway to the secret passageway, you mean."

With that there was a tilt of his head toward the wall behind them, and Regulus saw with a start was not quite a wall at all. Spreading from floor to ceiling was instead a mirror glimmering with pale images, their own figures dappled black with shadow and gleaming white. In the reflection, Regulus saw his cousin step forward, shadows pooled over her face.

"Severus, would you like to do the honours?"

From behind Bellatrix, Severus Snape moved to the forefront of the group, drawing his wand from his robes with slender hands. A smile looked out of place beneath those jutting cheekbones and hooked nose, but he smirked as he flourished his wand at the mirror.

"Might as well, when you're offering," remarked Snape with the kind of sideways glance at her that would have made Regulus nervous. It was easy to be nervous around Snape -- he emanated distrust.

Presently, his wand tapped once against the glass, and Regulus watched, fascinated, as the silver surface bent beneath its touch, shimmering as it rippled outward. Without so much as a glance behind him, Snape stepped into the mirror and melted through the panel as though it were not hanging there at all.

Bellatrix smiled knowingly at her younger cousin while the others followed Snape. "Pretty little thing, isn't it?"

With that she reached for Regulus' arm tugged him forward and into the mirror, vanishing into the liquid glass. He snapped his eyes shut as he drew in a breath, but felt nothing as he stepped forward --

And suddenly it was over, with anticlimactic lack of sensation. When his eyes fluttered open on the other side, it was entirely dark. His hands, groping behind him, came into contact with solid stone.

Someone whispered "_Lumos_" and the room surged with light. Regulus blinked rapidly, sight lagging back to reveal the cavernous room, high arched ceiling, and walls curving down to the floor.

"There's probably still a bonfire going," Bella was saying, almost dancing with excitement.

"As long as the pubs are open, that's all that matters," said Rosier, who held the wand aloft, eyeing the passageway that twisted out of sight in the darkness. Illian Neven issued an ardent second.

"They won't be, if we stand here all night talking about them," said Rodolphus, snatching Rosier's wand and sprinting down the passage. Rosier yelped in surprise and went charging after him, the others at their heels. As the floor took a gradual decline, they stomped downhill, wandlight illuminating the path inch by inch and disappearing the same behind. Hogsmeade presumably loomed at the end, and with it, the night's festivities.

That celebration in particular was a tradition Hogwarts frowned upon; 'reputable' schools didn't celebrate the efforts of terrorists, Bella had scoffed, Muggle _or_ magical. Regardless of the school's formal opinions, the Heads of houses were known to turn a blind eye on students found out of bounds on such a holiday. Guy Fawkes was the toast of the night, and in Hogsmeade there lay the promise of many toasts.

And if there was ever a student in need of a diversion, reasoned Regulus, it was him. The events of last Monday evening still ran through his mind like an irritating _Hobgoblins_ hit on the WNN. It was hard to say why he felt so jolted by the end of things -- the end of Gale, the end of the statue, the end of pretending things weren't the way they were -- but trying to work it out had proved useless.

Beyond that, even, complications persisted; nothing could persuade Narcissa she'd made a mistake in stealing part of the Televoyance Draught, and Ahlman hadn't noticed the difference when the rest was delivered. Regulus had gone so far during that nerve-wracking meeting to consciously _will_ Phoebus' attention to fall on the theft, but to no avail. He was finally forced to reconcile that his amateur attempts at telepathy were rubbish, while Narcissa smiled politely and addressed Ahlman with a few choice words regarding where he could go if he ever needed anything again. Specifically, Hell.

Now the Room of Requirement and the opportunities it offered were Narcissa's affair entirely -- Regulus hade made it clear that he had no desire to be included in her plans, and he hadn't been. Since Monday evening, everything in his life had fallen back into its proper place.

As it turned out, everything in its proper place was a good deal less interesting, if also less stressful, than not. Agreeing to this evening's excursion was an attempt to break up the monotony.

Thus, be it good sense or folly, Regulus found himself trailing five of his seventh-year housemates down the passageway, anticipation building with every step as he listened to Bellatrix's animated whispers describing all the excitement they'd hoped to find on this gloriously rebellious evening out.

By the end of the passageway their energy, if not Bellatrix's enthusiasm, had drained almost completely. Gargantuan stair steps emerged from the floor, so worn with age that they almost appeared as an upward slope of crumbled rock; the students made their weary way upward without comment. An age of climbing deposited them on a landing beneath a low trap door, soon heaved out of the way, and one by one they clambered out into a nondescript room, entirely dark and encrusted with dust.

"Where are we?" asked Regulus, coughing as he stood up.

"Storage shed behind the Three Broomsticks," grunted Bellatrix, hoisting herself up behind him. "Nothing to worry about, though, they never come back here."

The sound of the pub's name was enough to send Neven bounding out the door with Rosier and Snape soon after, a shower of dust raining down as the door jolted open. Rodolphus was stayed from following them by Bellatrix's hand on his shoulder.

"_Tell me_ you're not going with them."

He looked at her in exasperation. "For a little while, Bella, come with us -- you know there's no point in coming all the way here if you won't at least have a drink! We'll not stay long--"

"Illian will be in there all night," retorted Bella with disdain. "Get drunk on break, have your uncles send you Firewhiskey -- but you can't exactly light a bonfire in your dormitory, can you?"

Rodolphus scowled, which probably meant that bonfires did not fit anywhere into his plans for the evening. As he stood casting his eyes around the room, they fell on Regulus, who lingered beside Bellatrix.

"Can't you show Regulus around? He's never been down here on Bonfire Night, has he?"

No, he hadn't, but before Regulus could verify that, Rodolphus had turned with a grin and taken off in the direction his friends had gone. Bellatrix shouted, "Don't forget the time!" after his back, but looked more amused than vexed by his desertion.

"What did that mean?" asked Regulus, ducking his head as she ushered him out the small doorway.

"Hmm?" said Bella, letting the rickety door thud shut behind them. "Only that we'll have to be back before dawn, of course."

It hadn't occurred to him that they might be out that late, but for some reason he was no more worried than he had been about sneaking out in the first place. It might have been due to Bellatrix's smile as she led him down the alleyway, glowing with the same fervour as the bright shop windows lining the street where they emerged.

That was quite a sight. Paper lanterns swung above their heads, lighting the street brilliantly as torches and shop lights blazed below. Bright-faced witches and wizards hurried up and down the streets in a mess of boots and swirl of cloaks, laughter and loud conversation. A strong smell of wood and cooking meat overpowered the street, carried by wind that swept down between the buildings and ruffled the hems of their robes and cloaks against their legs. Whatever children were lucky enough not to have been sent to bed raced after each other down the cobblestone walk, shrieking and attempting to jinx each other with miniature wands.

It would have been enough to stand there in the mouth of the alleyway simply breathing it all in -- the sights and the smells and the way that warmth radiated from the charmed cobblestone street to keep the snow from making the stones slick -- but Bellatrix wouldn't waste a moment of her freedom and was soon dragging her cousin in the direction everyone was going.

At the centre of the village, where thin and twisting streets gathered together from all directions, the bonfire had been erected: a massive and intricate structure that towered above the village square. Regulus first glimpsed it above the swarming crowd, brilliant flames crackling and licking the air, flashing different colours as wizards spun charms through the flames. The two cousins meandered through the crowd until they were at its verge, surrounded in a circle oppressive with heat, stuffy with people, and enthralling all the same.

"_Bonfires combat the winter darkness and bring light into the world_," chanted Bellatrix in a singsong voice, gazing into the fire with a bit of a smile.

"What's that from?"

"Some book my father used to read aloud on Hallows' eve," said Bella, and closed her eyes to inhale deeply -- breathing in the night air slowly. "We all grew out of that sort of thing before Hogwarts, though."

"That's practically the point," Regulus said, closing his eyes as well. "Send your kids off just when they get tired of growing up with you."

Her eyes blinked open as she turned toward him thoughtfully. "We never did go back to those traditions, did we?"

He opened one eye to look at her. "Would you _want_ to?"

Bellatrix only laughed and reached over to take his hand, lacing their fingers together. "Come on, Regulus," she said, tugging it gently, "Let's go walking, shall we?"

Just like that they pushed their way back through the laughing crowd, weaving around to a small side street that ran straight to the edge of town. Slowing to a walk, they started up that street, the warmth of the bonfire drifting away behind them.

"A pity we missed the fireworks," Bella remarked, lifting her chin to watch the sky. Regulus followed her gaze and saw the murky brown residue hanging motionless in the air. "Of course," she continued, still looking upwards, "I've always thought of this as a pointless holiday, really. Fawkes failed. And if you leave Hogsmeade and visit a Muggle town, you find that _they're_ celebrating, as well, that he _didn't_ succeed. It feels a bit silly after that, don't you think?"

"Mmm," agreed Regulus, who had never given it any thought one way or the other, "It is pointless, isn't it?"

Bella nodded, half to herself, and tore her eyes from the sky. She still seemed preoccupied as they continued up the street, hands in their pockets to keep their fingers from freezing.

It struck Regulus as they rambled over the cobbled stones just how inflexible Bellatrix's viewpoint was. It didn't matter that the celebrations were fun; to her they were silly, because even the filthy Muggles celebrated. Sirius probably thought that was fanatical; he probably rolled his eyes and exaggerated the story for his friends. Narcissa probably thought it extreme, not because she disagreed in theory, but because it was more practical to have fun than make a fuss over specifics. Andromeda might have thought the discussion ridiculously narrow-minded, but only mentioned that opinion to Regulus, in private.

And Regulus -- Regulus wasn't sure what to think.

But living the way he had since Monday didn't leave a lot of room for thinking on his own, and Narcissa and Bellatrix had enough opinions to make up for the lack. Regulus always felt like a child in Bellatrix's presence, but it was harder to justify as he grew older. Bella never treated him like a child; she treated him like an adult and made him feel like a child all the while.

It was with that self-same hauteur that she turned toward him now, abandoning her stargazing with a faint smirk. That smile, saccharine sweet on her red lips, was as familiar and remote as any other of her defences. If you noticed the smile you might forget the coldness of her eyes.

"About time to find the others, do you think?" she asked, jolting him from his preoccupied musings. He realised that they had wandered far enough that the tree line of the Forbidden Forest loomed somewhere in the distance; only a few derelict buildings stood between them and the pitch-dark land before it.

"Yes, that sounds perfect," he said vaguely, trying to shake off that uncomfortable train of thought. He turned back the way they'd come, mumbling, "There's not anything out here anyway, is there?"

There was no reply for a moment, and he glanced over his shoulder to see her standing solidly, eyes fixed in the distance, as though she had no intentions of leaving at all.

"Oh no," she murmured, that wonted smile curling on her lips, "I think we've just found Illian."

He followed her gaze past the last forlorn building with brows furrowed sharply. Somewhere beyond the grey of sporadic snowflakes was, unmistakably, a group of people.

"How can you see Illian out there?"

One white finger rose to silence him. "Listen."

As he strained his ears, Regulus could make out the muted sound of a very familiar voice. He turned back in astonishment as Bellatrix languidly elevated her eyebrows.

"The ground is flat here," she said succinctly, with the kind of terseness that might have been thinly veiled agitation. Her eyes did not stray from their mark as she spoke. "Interested?"

It took less than a nod or a grin of concession from him before Bella stepped forward, her eyes trained on the group ahead. They did not hold hands as he followed her forward toward that treeline, where cobblestone yielded to loose gravel and the village lights melted back into darkness.

With it, the warmth evaporated and the wind rushed where no buildings broke its path. The sight of his rising breath and the sound of the gravel crunching beneath his feet were isolated sensations in a deserted plot of land that felt so unreal in its silence, as though colour had been drained from it.

There was a moderate crowd grouped around a short stone wall which did not extend far in either direction. Seated at the centre, voice ringing obnoxiously, was Illian Neven. '_Oh no_' was right.

No one took interest in their appearance as Regulus and Bellatrix fell in directly next to the wall, and abruptly he realised that it was not freestanding at all, but was one of four sides of an ancient stone pigpen, walls sinking and crumbling with age. A hideous stench wafted up from the mud that caked the walls and dark bristles of a lone hog reposed in the filth, black-haired and snorting in the frigid air.

The hog was what caught his attention. The most surprising thing, Regulus realized, was that it never had before. How many times had he explored this end of Hogsmeade on a weekend visit with his classmates? He could remember seeing it here, at the very least, but never having stopped to look at it in any detail at all. Now that he finally did it was curiously captivating and absurdly regal. Noble and ridiculous, it lounged as a ruler of a private domain these wizards merely borrowed for a time.

A scoff from Regulus' side interrupted the reverie. Bellatrix was watching the crowd. That probably meant that Neven was telling his story wrong, as she was bound to have been there anyway. Nevertheless, it was easy to see that the storytelling ability of the swaying Neven, who grinned like a fool as he gnawed on his Firewhiskey bottle, was highly questionable.

Before Regulus could even ask, Bellatrix tugged his sleeve and moved to speak in his ear.

"Before the villagers bought it, the pig lived on a farm infested with nogtails," she whispered, her breath warm against his face. "The sow let a nogtail suckle her. A _demon_, you know -- the farm went bankrupt, so they sold everything and abandoned the place. This pig has a curse from those nogtails."

"It really is a cursed pig?" asked Regulus, straightening in surprise.

She shrugged, her smile crafty. "I don't think there's anything malicious in it. Always good for a laugh, though, cursed pigs."

It was hard to tell what she meant by this, but there was no time to think about it when a distraction interrupted Regulus' questioning.

Neven, apparently overtaken by the task of staying upright on his only slightly precarious perch, had by some manoeuvre of great cunning managed to topple backwards into the pen. Instantaneously the crowd was guffawing again as he smacked wetly in the mud, thrashing his limbs like a drowning man.

"I'm a'right!" he shouted, hoisting himself up with such suddenness that he nearly tumbled over again. Globs of muck flew from his flailing arms, splattering the wall and a few of the nearest bystanders. Regulus took a few wise steps backwards.

"Watch out for the cursed pig, Illian!" Bellatrix teased over the wall.

At the reminder of the pig's alleged curse, Neven wheeled around to face it, boots squelching in the muck before he slipped and pitched over again. The hog, lying a few feet away, snorted its dark-bristled snout but made no move to get up from where it reclined, impervious to the shrieking laughter all around.

That was where they stood when another voice pierced the commotion.

"Cursed pig?" it scathed, louder than was wise, acidic. "Fairy tales for idiots!"

The sound of it jarred Regulus from Neven's amusing act, and instantly he swung around to scan the crowd for whoever had spoken.

Ah. There, only a little way back, was exactly the girl he should have expected.

Bellatrix caught her cousin's attention when she moved away from the wall, taking confident steps through the crowd. Regulus might have expected anger on her face, but as he looked on, dumbfounded, her lips parted in a smile he recognised as hatred.

"You think you're amazing, don't you, Madeleine?"

And Madeleine Bourdelet looked wearily back through the spreading aisle of turning heads.

"No more than anyone else does," she acknowledged. Regulus felt heat spread across his face when her eyes lingered for a moment in his direction -- but she spun suddenly back toward the village glinting not so far in the distance. A retreat.

Bellatrix had other plans.

"Wait a minute, Maddie," she called, striding forward over the gravel. Regulus felt a heavy sense of dread in his stomach -- _let her walk away_, he willed, but as he watched, Bourdelet halted after only a few steps, turning as though she had something better to do than listen to Bellatrix talk.

"You don't think the pig is cursed?"

Bourdelet's arms crossed. "No."

There was something in Bellatrix's expression, then, that seemed inappropriate; it might have been triumph in her casual smile and her upturned face. And Regulus could tell, an instant before it happened: Bellatrix was planning something.

"But it is!" she burst out suddenly, throwing her arms wide, and then it was happening.

Curious heads turned to watch with empty grins at this new spectacle, another step away from the separated reality in which no one believed a ridiculous story about nogtails and pigs. The girl put words to the drunken fantasy that entertained so vacantly, and so they cheered when she spun nonsensically, crying, "The pig is cursed, isn't it?"

They cheered as anyone might have, one spectacle running into the next as Neven's floundering was abandoned. Regulus' breath caught in the surge of applause, his stomach twisting. No one believed Bellatrix, he knew -- but this was an exhibition, and the audience was enthralled.

Arms still outstretched, Bella whirled back to face her opponent. The grin had become downright cocky. "No one seems to agree with you, Maddie."

Bourdelet remained silent through this mocking, staring determinedly past, fists clenched as tightly as her jaw. What could she be thinking? That allowing herself to be teased publicly would somehow evaporate Bellatrix's long-standing grudge? Clearly that was still what she wanted -- to please -- but Regulus knew this was not the means to that end. Appeasement wouldn't occur to Bella. She'd never even consider forgiveness.

She'd also tire of unresponsive prey -- at least Bourdelet seemed to recognise that. As Bellatrix rounded her transitory stage her glances deserted amusement for contempt. She snarled, "Don't you have anything to say?" and when the other girl merely swallowed, Bella sighed, eyes narrowing. "Tell us, Madeleine -- what should we do with the cursed pig?"

Excited murmuring erupted through the crowd. Bourdelet's stare broke as she glanced around in confusion.

"What we should do?" she repeated blankly.

"We have to do something!" raved Bellatrix, grinning like a fool, drunken with momentum that showed no signs of slowing. "We can't let a nogtail's curse lie so close to Hogwarts, can we?"

More cheering, more laughter, more shouts and jeers and more of Bella's hollow smile. A curse, so close to Hogwarts? No, most certainly not -- the girl was right. Something must be done. The sounds of it rang in Regulus' ears with frightening intensity and it seemed to him that the words were unimportant. Bellatrix stood at the centre of it all -- she was the important part, with her pose of translucent triumph and her smile like cracked glass.

But there was something else beneath it, and as he stood so near and examined her in such great detail that seemed to seep away from everything else in that evening he could see it all. Her wide smile quivered, her eyes blinked cold, her posture trembled with the strain of holding in what must have been a flood of adrenaline and nerve. The shards faded out with the rest of the background, simply because they were not the kind of things Regulus wanted to see.

Opposite was Bourdelet, white as bone, her eyes dark and hollow. Her mouth was open but she said nothing; she stood silent, shivering as though it were a difficult task to breathe.

"Do you know what we should do?" said Bellatrix, to everyone.

And everyone wanted to know.

"I think we should kill it."

The applause thundered with mindless urgency, so intense that Regulus imagined he felt bones tremble in it. For Bourdelet it was as though the spell had been broken. She stumbled an involuntary step forward, the only one affected by shock.

"Kill it?" she choked, "Kill the hog? It's been around for years, you can't just--"

"_I'm_ not going to do it," Bella drawled, "_You're _going to. Everyone wants you to. Didn't you hear them?"

"I'm not killing anything," shouted Bourdelet, eyes wide with fright. "Get someone else to do it."

No, Madeleine, it wasn't that simple. Bellatrix _wanted_ it. Regulus could see it in her grey eyes when she leered, her arms crossed, dark hair gleaming. He could tell, because she directed every fragment of her attention at Bourdelet -- a privilege, to be sure -- with that look, a look of malice and apathy and irreverence. Bellatrix wanted it, so Bourdelet would do it.

Regulus understood all of this perfectly.

But Madeleine Bourdelet did not, or perhaps refused to believe it. There were still no other options for her; the utter fear wouldn't let her even look away. One foot, perhaps of its own accord, trailed a half-step backwards -- but she wasn't going anywhere, and she knew it. Trapped, as though stunned, too petrified to walk away, too transfixed to break the spell.

With slow precision, Bellatrix shortened the distance between them, hands clasped innocently behind her back. Her smile was brittle when she asked, deceptively conversational, "You know, I've always wondered what it's like, being an outsider. Not much fun?"

Bourdelet's eyes found the ground in shame. This was not like her, Regulus realised, not like the Bourdelet he had encountered; she was fast with biting retorts, judgemental, immature. Merlin, she deserved to be paraded as an idiot before a crowd of strangers -- but as much as Regulus believed that, it was still impossible to look on this and not think that something was wrong. Bourdelet always deferred to Bella, if reluctantly, but looking on her now was like watching an empty shell of her face and figure with nothing behind it at all. She was too silent. Everything was silent; even the distant village music was as quiet as though there had never been noise.

"Of course not," Bellatrix was saying, at the centre of her private stage. Her smile melted a bit at the edges, mockingly. "You _do_ still want to be one of us?"

The two girls were standing so closely, and Regulus could see it all: Bellatrix's smile and Bourdelet's half-open mouth. The breeze stirred their hair from their shoulders, whipped around their robes, blowing up leaves from the ground where they stood. Bella was dark and gleaming, Bourdelet pale and bleak.

"Kill it," Bella bit out, their faces inches apart. "You're capable, aren't you? Really, Madeleine -- show everyone you're still your old self."

_One of us_.

It was as though the blond girl had been put into a trance. Bourdelet nodded, a brief, tight movement of her head, and Bellatrix leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her cheekbone.

"I knew you could do it."

The words sent an ice-cold shiver straight down Regulus' spine, and when the two girls stepped apart he realised why. Bourdelet's expression was so hollow he barely recognised her. But when she turned to walk stoically past him, their eyes met for only a passing instant, but the look in hers was hauntingly familiar. _This is your fault._

But it wasn't, he thought frantically, as he backed out of the crowd -- he didn't want to be anywhere near while this was happening. There was no way she could blame him for refusing her help. She didn't deserve help.

His justifications were cut short when he stumbled backward and plummeted to the ground, wincing as his palms hit gravel. Grimacing under a wave of pain, Regulus craned his neck to see what he had tripped over -- not something, but someone.

Illian Neven lay sprawled on the ground, but did not appear taken aback that he had just been shoved to the ground. He reeled while he tried to sit up, cackling helplessly, and Regulus saw the endless mud splatters over his robes.

"Did you know," wheezed Neven, between breathless laughter, "Bella made that story up?"

Horror seized him. Before he knew it he was scrambling to his feet and spinning back to face the pen -- but the crowd was closing in to watch, and Bellatrix was still at its centre.

Bourdelet had already climbed over the wall.

-----

Madeleine was very certain she was drowning.

It was far away in the way she would expect of looking through a telescope backwards: long, drooping figures blurred white at the edges. Her head ached with the task of just looking at it, stomach writhing in her abdomen. Perhaps it was something she'd eaten, she told herself, but when she opened her eyes it was impossible to believe it.

Dread filled her lungs as she stood and listened to the most absurd proposition Bella had ever given her. Her stiff joints felt leaden and lethargic -- it surprised her that she could move at all. Drowsiness overcame her so suddenly that it should have been alarming, threatening to fell her even as she stumbled nearer to her target. As her eyelids drooped it seemed she was insulated from the madness around her, as though she were moving underwater -- and the sluggish protests of her limbs then meant nothing at all.

Bella had never done this before, said something at the back of her mind. That was a transparent lie, for Bella was always doing things like this -- stretching and daring and teasing and shoving to see just how far she could push someone before they snapped.

Madeleine Bourdelet was about to snap, and she knew it.

A wave of panic swelled in her mind as she frantically groped for something, anything to stop the pounding in her brain. Memory upon memory fell together like mismatched pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, jumbled achingly in her head as she staggered forward and tried to make some sense of the present or past. And then she found it, a fragment as remote and persistent as a cobweb in her mind.

At the age of eleven, she'd been the fourth child to let the Sorting Hat fall over her eyes, perched on the stool with a white-knuckled grip on its sides. Before had been two boys but only one girl: the only first year who'd gazed disdainfully at the Hat, the only one to have worn it with such measured calm. Bellatrix Black as she had first appeared, poised and self-possessed through every detail of that nerve-wracking night.

While Madeleine lurched through the mud, frightened and nauseous and confused, that was the only thing she could think about.

Slytherin meant sitting down right in front of the dark-haired girl who wasn't interested in nervousness or paying attention to other people. Slytherin meant not faltering in that sharp grey gaze and plunging through the first stare-down Madeleine had ever had in her life.

Slytherin meant giving what you got, or being ploughed over in the process.

So that was what Madeleine did when she suggested that if Bella liked glaring at the Gryffindor table so much, she should feel free to deposit herself over _there_ instead of being a lump of self-pity and arrogance over _here_.

"Do you even know who I am?" the girl had replied coldly, eyes narrowed to dignified slits. Dark pupils like eyes of an animal, frozen air rushing under tattered and muddy robes...

The eleven-year-olds' robes were clean, and there was a nametag on their front. "Bellatrix Black," Madeleine read. Dutiful from the start.

"Do you know who's at the Gryffindor table?" drawled Bella, so suddenly it was surprising. "My cousin."

Embarrassing to admit it -- that was precisely why she did. Somehow, perversely, it was a punishment, and a challenge. The falsely upturned corners of her mouth and the barely perceptible narrowing of her eyes said everything. _I dare you to mock me._

Mocking -- there was much of that, but not on the first meeting, and not on the second. That ritual was reserved for the darkness of Bonfire Night, where remote horrors went unnoticed and without atonement, where there was no penance for secret spellwork and bodies that moved without their owner's permission like a walking corpse. Mind games and crowd psychology, confusion and apathy, cruelty and affection that lingered together when neither were completely sincere -- these were the real world.

This was not 1971.

But her mind was so occupied while her body moved forward, mechanically, while wands were drawn and words were spoken so distantly that they must have been a part of some other dimension. She had fallen to her knees and the present was choking when the past blurred -- smothering, gasping, swallowing, _breathe _--

Madeleine snapped upright so violently that she nearly toppled backwards, coughing frantically and retching over the still corpse before her. Her vision blurred, throat burning as she pressed her arms against her stomach, spitting bile and loads of the red stuff that she didn't want to taste any longer.

When her body shook so badly that it hurt she drew in halting, wheezing breaths, trying so desperately to relax her muscles and force open her eyes. But when she could see the grotesque sight her muscles seized again, eyes burning as she struggled just to breathe.

A deep gash went almost all the way through the pig's motionless neck. The head twisted weirdly where she could see that she'd gone right down to the bone; she could see its mouth gaping open as though it had died squealing for a breath of air.

She threw up.

As she sat shuddering over the corpse, another noise shot through everything else and made her heart freeze mid-beat. "They're coming! Quick! Someone's heard!"

And still, her muscles wouldn't move.

-----

In one awful moment, everyone heard the same words.

Silhouetted by the village lights, black figures pounded across the ground, the crowd scattering in shrieks of dark surprise.

It was chaos then, when panicked figures dashed in all different directions, slipping into the thick night, toward the forest, toward the village. Regulus could feel his blood pounding when he realised that Bellatrix was gone -- it was impossible to recognize anyone else in the gloom.

Thundering footsteps roiled like an earthquake. Swift glances around; everyone running without a clue, stumbling. Bella gone, Neven gone, Bourdelet--

No, Regulus could see with a jolt, Bourdelet was still there. She kneeled as though frozen in the dark mud with her blank, pale face, the red in streams down her throat, arms, chest. For a split moment he could only stare at her haunted face, his stomach lurching, until something heavy slammed into him, nearly knocking him to the ground.

"What the hell are you doing?" The shout was so close to Regulus' ear that he nearly stumbled again. But the voice he recognised as his disorientated mind remembered what was happening. Rodolphus.

"I thought you were at--"

Rodolphus wasn't listening, he was hauling Regulus after him in lurching footsteps until the younger boy ran freely, panting toward the forest without look back at their pursuers.

But when they reached the treeline, Regulus did look back, one swift glance over his shoulder at the place where tall men now stood, shaking wands in the air as the last of the crowd disappeared. Past them, in the crumbling stone pig-pen, all that remained was a blood-soaked corpse and red mixed in to the wet mud.

Bourdelet was nowhere in sight.


End file.
